


The Taste of the Bitter Apple

by DelicatePoem



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Drama, F/F, Regina eats the apple, Romance, Season/Series 01, Sleeping Curse, Slow Burn, True Love, help me, why do i always keep them apart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:27:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 31,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26227129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DelicatePoem/pseuds/DelicatePoem
Summary: It would be slightly suspicious if she’d just given the one apple turnover to Emma Swan without explanations, thus Regina baked two apple turnovers just in case. Her plan would have had a higher success rate if she’d actually marked which apple turnover was which…Unfortunately, she did not.Set in Season 1 - Canon Divergence from An Apple Red As Blood.
Relationships: Evil Queen | Regina Mills/Emma Swan
Comments: 40
Kudos: 189
Collections: 5 stars, Swan Queen Supernova V: Forever Starstruck





	The Taste of the Bitter Apple

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vortexofevilkz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vortexofevilkz/gifts), [CynthiaER](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CynthiaER/gifts), [Angeii_K](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angeii_K/gifts), [soundslikehope](https://archiveofourown.org/users/soundslikehope/gifts), [KizuRai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KizuRai/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Taste of the Bitter Apple (Art).](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26179786) by [vortexofevilkz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vortexofevilkz/pseuds/vortexofevilkz). 



> I'd like to start this by thanking the best people ever, who helped push this off the ground when I decided midway through the event that I would change my story. Thank you to my amazing friends: Ang, Sophy and Hope. Our several chats (sometimes very chaotic and trying to turn my fic into crack, smh) and discussions were extremely important, and I can't thank you enough. For the last-minute reading/suggestions as well!!! ♥ Love you all.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who supported me this year. There are too many to count, and I don't want to forget anyone, but just know that you're all in my heart.
> 
> A special thanks to CynthiaER, who was my cheerleader _and_ my beta! I'm so happy we got in touch again after... almost 4 years, I think! Your everlasting support (and cheerleader pompoms) as well as your wonderful comments on the story helped me see light at the end of the tunnel. This story wouldn't be what it is if if weren't for your help. Thank you!!!
> 
> Finally, thank you to **vortexofevilkz** for the AWESOME BEAUTIFUL PRETTIEST cover art you can see clicking [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26179786). I'm in love with it, and it inspired me SO MUCH. Please please send her some love too. (Lena, you're AMAZING.)
> 
> This turned out to be something way bigger than I'd expected (I don't know why I ever thought I'd stick to 10k), and I hope you enjoy. Please let me know what you think ♥
> 
> A few notes:  
> \- David managed to go to Boston... The curse weakened enough that he could go. Just bear with me, lol. I just couldn't find a way to write him in.  
> \- An epilogue is coming later!!
> 
> Take care,  
> —Vicky

####  **March 6th, 2012**

Very soon now her savior problem will be solved.

Yes, it won’t be long before Emma Swan is but a distant memory for Storybrooke.

Regina cuts through the crust with care, satisfied with the crispness of the apple turnover. She outdid herself with these. 

The recipe made two; besides, it would have been too suspicious, especially with Emma’s recent... _animosity_ towards her, if she’d only baked one. Thankfully, Emma was none the wiser, and accepted the _gift_ with minimum fuss. And now, because of her foresight, Regina even gets to taste the deliciousness of her dessert and celebrate her victory at last.

She momentarily thinks of Miss Swan taking a bite of hers without a care in the world and falling into a deep sleep. Though the image soon transforms itself in her mind’s eye as she stabs a piece with her fork, and she sees Emma taking a bite on her way back to Boston, possibly hitting a tree or something just as dramatic. She frowns, pausing; the fork poised before her mouth. Perhaps…

She shakes her head, tsking at herself. No turning back now. Her curse is what matters.

She hums around the sweet apple flavor once she gets to taste it. Saying goodbye to all her curse problems feels so good she can’t help her grin of delight.

It lasts for a second.

She swallows. _"Oh,"_ she says, choking on her next breath.

Regina feels exhausted. Her limbs heavy, she can’t quite hold herself upright anymore.

She’s vaguely aware of hitting her head against the counter on her way down, but there’s no flash of pain, there’s nothing but cold settling into her bones as her body collapses on the floor.

Her eyes close, and she is swallowed by darkness.

***

“Hey,” says Emma, climbing the steps on the porch with Henry in tow, empty tupperware in her hands. “Regina does know how to make a mean turnover, right?”

“Yeah…” replies Henry half-heartedly, already moving to open the door.

He’s still kind of angry at her for leaving town _and_ because the apple turnover wasn’t really poisoned, which is a whole other problem, because he really thought Regina was capable of _anything._

Since there hadn’t been an issue with the dessert, they both ate it while Emma told him he needed to think about his actions concerning Regina — maybe it’d be good to give her the benefit of the doubt. (Henry didn’t like that very much. “You’re giving up, Emma,” he’d said vehemently. “This is not the time to step back!”)

Well, maybe it is.

Because one thing is very clear to Emma already, as much as she hates to admit it: Regina loves him profoundly. Bad decisions notwithstanding.

Henry moves ahead of her inside the house, while Emma closes the door behind her and pretends she’s not tense being in here again so soon. Feeling out of place is nothing new to her, though.

 _“Emma! Something’s not right!”_ She jumps, and the empty tupperware nearly falls from her hands. _“Mom! Please, mom, wake up,”_ she hears Henry’s panicked voice, and that prompts her into action.

***

Regina wakes with a gasp, as though she’s finally breathing again. What a horrible sensation.

 _Where am I?_ All she can remember is — is —

She narrows her eyes, distracted by the brightness of the lit torch in a sconce further ahead, and allows herself a few moments to gather her thoughts.

Her eyes widen. “No. It can’t be—”

She pinches herself, but feels nothing. It’s as though her body is numb to her touch.

 _“No!”_ she screams, and the result is an echo of her own denial, mocking her, taunting her for failing.

Regina has fallen into her own trap.

_“Mom! What did you do, Mom?”_

Regina raises her head from the floor and looks around, startled. “Henry?” she dares to ask.

_“I’m going to call an ambulance, okay? Stay here with her.”_

_“Wake up! Come on, Mom… Please wake up…”_

“Oh, Henry. My little prince.” Regina says, tears in her eyes. _“I’m so sorry.”_

***

Emma sits down in the waiting chair next to Henry’s and heaves a sigh, arms and legs feeling like jelly.

It’s too much to process.

She’d spent the night before wide awake, determined to run away from this place and only visit Henry every once in a while. And now… this has happened.

Emma brings her hands to her face, fighting the urge to scream. She’s a mix of anger and confusion and she’s just exhausted and Henry’s mother might not wake up—

“Emma?” Henry touches her head gently, his voice small. “Is mom gonna be okay? Did Dr. Whale say something?”

Emma swallows, then slowly unravels from her position and turns to Henry, bundled up in the chair, holding his book on his lap tight-knuckled. The sight of his hurt and dismay feels like a bullet tearing straight through her heart. Is this what it means to hate seeing your loved ones in pain? Because oh, Emma is feeling it, and she can admit she’s scared — she doesn’t know how to answer his question.

Her frown deepens, because seeing Henry like this again, when just an hour ago he was in her apartment pleading with all he had for her not to leave Storybrooke… it’s the worst sight ever.

“They… they are running tests right now,” Emma says hesitantly, “but there doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with her.”

“There is! She ate the poisoned one, I’m sure, Emma! Please believe me, you have to believe me,” he cries, and his tears start anew. The book slips from his lap and falls with a thud on the floor, and his sobs are so loud she gets worried he’ll be sick.

 _“Oh, kid,”_ Emma breathes. “Regina— your mom will be okay.”

She hesitates only for a moment before wrapping her arms around him. The armrest digs into her hip bone and the slight discomfort it brings is a welcome sensation, reminding her she has to be strong for him. She lays her head on top of his and lets him cry, getting her own breathing in check.

“And you know what, Henry?” she asks quietly after they have both calmed down.

He looks at her in confusion, rubbing his sleeves under his nose. Bending down momentarily, she pulls his book from the floor to herself, grasping it in both hands. Once she’s upright, she glances at the book, and before she can say anything else, she has to close her eyes against the wave of memories washing over her, memories that aren’t quite her own. A sword, a strenuous fight, a baby being placed inside a wardrobe—

“—Emma? What’s going on? Emma!” It’s then she notices that Henry’s shaking her — and it feels like he might have been doing it for a while.

“Whoa— Hey, hey, I’m okay,” she tells him, and hugs him tightly for a moment, her mind in disarray. “I’m okay.”

 _I’m not sure I’m okay,_ she thinks, but gives a thumbs up to the nurse who came to check on them, after Henry started raising his voice. Looking down at the book again, Emma clenches her jaw, wondering if perhaps living in denial is better than the uncomfortable truth.

But when faced with another layer of proof she can’t rationalize…

She doesn’t really know how to feel about it, to be honest. It’s disconcerting to think that the apple turnover she got and ate with Henry at the loft was actually not intended for her. Regina mixed it up. Regina fucked it up so terribly and ended up paying the price. Henry says Regina ate the cursed turnover instead — but a Sleeping Curse? Dr. Whale can’t find anything wrong with the turnover or Regina so what other explanation is there?

Part of her wants to deny it, and she will cling to that for as long as she can.

“I believe you, Henry,” she says softly. Still wrestling with the idea, however. She gives him a meaningful look, pushing her own discomfort aside for his sake. He needs this.

Henry’s eyes go wide. “You… you do?”

Emma slowly nods. “I really do.” She grabs his hand and places it on top of the book. “Operation Cobra is not over yet, kid.”

It’s the first smile she’s gotten from him today, and it makes her smile back, just a bit. “See, I told you it wasn’t time to give up!”

“Yeah,” she replies, guilt festering in her stomach because that’s all she wants to do.

***

“Regina seems stable, for now,” says Dr. Whale once they’re allowed in Regina’s room half an hour later, and Henry runs to sit next to his mother. He lowers his voice so only Emma can hear him. “I still don't know what is causing this. That turnover you gave me can’t be the culprit. She did hit her head pretty hard—”

Emma sighs, briefly glancing at mother and son, overwhelmed by the fact that she _knows_ what is causing this, but refuses to fully acknowledge it. It’s too much. It wasn’t a fall that put Regina in coma — if it even could be called a coma… A magical coma? Dr. Whale has started listing Regina’s lack of symptoms, and Emma just nods along, more concerned with Henry, who sits motionless next to Regina, his eyes glued to the steady beating of the monitors.

“—and she could be in here for a while,” Dr. Whale comments, and that catches Emma’s attention. “Do you know what you’re going to do yet, with the… with the boy?”

Emma crosses her arms. “I’ll let you know if we have any more questions,” she says. It will be bad enough when word gets around by the infamous gossipers in this town (including Whale); she won’t facilitate things for them.

He clears his throat. “I know how to take a hint.” 

_Good, I didn’t know you had it in you, Whale._

“We’ll keep you two posted in case anything changes. Goodnight, Sheriff Swan; Henry.” He leaves the room.

Emma moves forward until she reaches the bed. She swallows heavily. She’d been avoiding actually thinking about Regina’s physical state ever since they found her in the kitchen, because she didn’t look well. Her body had been so cold to the touch when Emma pressed shaky fingers on her neck to find a pulse. (And what a faint pulse it’d been.)

Shivering just from the memory, Emma wraps her arms around Henry once more. He just holds Regina’s hand in both of his, not really acknowledging Emma.

They stay silent for a while.

It’s difficult to look at Regina. Because it doesn’t look like Regina — small, vulnerable, hurt. Wires are covering her chest and arms, and the image is disturbing. Even more so with the tubes in her nose and mouth. There’s a bandage wrapped around her head. And whenever Emma closes her eyes, she sees the blood, so much blood pouring out from the head wound, which Whale assures them had been mostly superficial, but her stomach twists unpleasantly all the same.

“Emma?” Henry says eventually, letting go of his mom’s hand.

“Yeah, kid?”

He moves away from Emma as well and looks down, kicking his feet back and forth on the chair. “Is it okay that I don’t want…” he trails off, and Emma bit her lip, not sure if she wants to hear it or not.

“...I-I don’t want my mom to— to _die,”_ he begins to cry, the last word almost unrecognizable.

“Henry… _Of course_ it’s okay—”

“She’s… she’s the Evil Queen, a-and she— she did b-bad things, right? But I didn’t— _I’m sorry!”_ he says, words rushed and filled with pain in a way a ten-year-old should not be experiencing.

It’s getting easier not to hesitate before hugging him. It’s an adjustment, suddenly having someone who seeks your solace, but Emma’s doing her best. Is she doing enough, though? What’s best for him _now?_

 _You’re his mother. That’s your job,_ Mary Margaret told her this morning. _So you figure it out._

Why does the first part ring in her ears as false, the more she ponders the affirmation?

He fights her for a second, understandably still angry at her for almost leaving, but then he gives up, hugging her tight.

She pushes the thought aside, because now is not the time to doubt herself. Henry is what matters, she concludes as she cradles his body in her arms, and tells him, “Kid, this isn’t your fault… You don’t have to apologize.”

He doesn’t answer.

“You hear me? It’s okay. _I’m_ sorry for making you think— You can love her and be angry at the same time, kid,” Emma continues softly, blinking back tears of her own. “It’s okay.”

She feels terrible. Because she’d had a direct influence on most of his issues with Regina since arriving in Storybrooke. After seeing just how far Regina was willing to go, she’d encouraged him to sneak out, even, out of spite sometimes. Regina got under her skin, and Emma enjoyed rattling her.

(And now her stomach churns if she so much as glances at Regina’s unmoving body.)

She needs… she needs some time alone, before the urge to run away—

 _And I’d thought you changed,_ Mary Margaret pointed out.

“Wanna have a few minutes alone?” she asks Henry, voice cracking, the question for him but for her as well.

“Yeah.” Henry nods, sniffling, his eyes not leaving Regina.

“‘Kay,” Emma ruffles his hair, giving him a small smile, thrumming with a nervous energy. “I’m gonna give Mary Margaret a call. Be back in a bit.”

***

Jennifer, one of the nurses, had said she could use the supply closet around the corner; therefore, with the perfect place to hide _and_ make a phone call, Emma closes the door behind her and exhales shakily.

A phone call she doesn’t want to make, really. But Emma’s past the point of pride and she needs advice.

It rings twice. The third time, she’s met with a curt “Emma.” She can picture Mary Margaret crossing her arms, a disapproving frown on her features.

“Mary Margaret. Hey...” Emma says, leaning a hand against the nearest storage shelf, head lowered.

“Imagine my surprise when I open the door and see almost all of your things packed.”

“Yeah, about that—”

“What’s going on, Emma?” Mary Margaret interrupts, voice raised by a notch. Moving away from the shelf, Emma walks in circles around the small room, getting increasingly agitated. “Just this morning I thought you’d decided to stay, and then… Would you even bother to say goodbye this time?”

“Yes— No— I’m— Could you stop for one second?” Emma snaps, bringing a hand to her forehead as if it will alleviate the headache that is persistently trying to knock her down.

She can hear Mary Margaret’s sigh over the line.

“You’re right. I’m sorry, Emma. I just had a bad encounter with David, but that doesn’t excuse…” She pauses. “So, why are your things still here?”

Emma has to smile at the abrupt change of subject. Mary Margaret sometimes lets her mouth run faster than her brain, and the results are often questions or answers you won’t like to hear. Emma likes how her friend’s soft exterior hides a flame burning bright inside.

_(Don’t think about the book, don’t think about the book. Not now.)_

“I’m with Henry at the hospital. Regina is…” Emma stops, licking her lips, wondering how to say it, how to _explain_ what happened.

_She ate the apple turnover intended for me and poisoned herself—_

“Oh!” Mary Margaret gasps, and Emma hears some rustling. “Do you— Are you okay? I’ll be right there, just need to— where are my keys—?”

In her hesitation, Mary Margaret has probably assumed the worst. “We’re fine,” Emma rushes to say, then shakes her head, because that isn’t really true. “I-I mean, Henry and I. We’re fine. Regina… Regina isn’t.”

“What?”

“Regina is in a coma.” There. She said it. _Regina is in a coma._ It feels like Emma’s in a lucid nightmare with no way out; only a few hours ago, she’d talked with Regina, and now...

“Oh my god. I don’t even... know what to say…” There’s a pause. Then— “What do you need, Emma?”

***

Henry sits there, in silence for a while.

He’s confused. And sad. And very, very angry, too.

Confused because his mom always seemed so… invincible. Like those supervillains from his comics that always came back, no matter what happened.

Sad because… he really, really doesn’t want his mom to—

He doesn’t want to think about the word.

And angry because if Mom hadn’t mixed up the apple turnovers, Emma would have eaten it. But he’s confused, because he’s angry about it, but he also didn’t want his mom to eat it—

He sighs loudly, the sound magnified by the quietness of the room.

The monitor sound doesn’t count. It’s there, an annoying presence in the back of his mind.

Getting up from the chair, he hesitantly grasps Mom’s still hand in his, hisses at the cold feeling and lets it go. It’s a surprise she’s not shivering, because she feels so, so cold.

“Why did you have to do this, Mom?” he muses quietly, dejected. “Emma was gonna leave town.”

He gently grazes his fingertips on her cheek to check her temperature. (It’s impossible to touch her forehead like she always did when he was sick, thanks to the bandage around her head.)

She’s _freezing._

He looks around, but the nurse that was in there has already left. “I don’t know where I can get a blanket,” he explains to her as though she can hear him. Can she? He’ll have to do some research on that one. “So…”

Henry unwinds his long woolen scarf from his neck.

“It’s not my favorite one,” he says, then realizes Mom might not understand what he means. “My scarf. I’m wearing the… yellow one. I’ll bring my favorite to you tomorrow.”

He places both of her hands together on her belly, careful not to jostle the clip secured to her right finger nor the wires attached to her arm. He rolls the scarf around her hands. Then leans back and inspects his work.

It looks weird, but maybe it will keep her hands warm. He should probably say something to a nurse, though.

He makes a mental list of what he needs for Operation… Save Mom (the name is a work in progress). Scarf, gloves, blankets. Then, for Operation Cobra, he has to break the curse. Actually, both of them. There are _two_ curses now.

He sighs again.

That last one just got more difficult.

***

Emma is dragging her feet by the time they get to the loft. She ushers Henry inside, and spots Mary Margaret behind the kitchen counter with a mug held close to her face. Averting her eyes, Emma starts removing her jacket, and Henry copies her move without a word, then she hangs his coat next to hers.

He’s been so quiet since they left the hospital.

Mary Margaret points to the table. “How does hot cocoa with cinnamon sound?”

Emma spares her a grateful look and places a hand against Henry’s shoulder blades, gently nudging him to one of the chairs. 

“Thank you, Miss Blanchard,” Henry says quietly once she places the mugs on the table, and Emma is grateful for having a friend like Mary Margaret in her life.

She conveniently focuses on her cocoa to avoid thinking about the curse, and what that entails. It soothes her, if only for a while.

***

It’s almost midnight by the time Emma parks in front of 108 Mifflin Street. She’d managed to make Henry fall asleep in her bedroom, albeit with his everyday clothes. That reminded her she had to drive to his home and grab some stuff for him, just until she could figure out a more permanent solution tomorrow.

She lets her head rest against the steering wheel for a few seconds. Just a few. She feels her exhaustion settling in, eyes burning from the lack of sleep.

Eventually she musters the courage to enter the house, Henry’s backpack in her grip, the silent grandioseness of the mansion doing _wonders_ for her nerves.

She climbs the stairs to the second floor, and immediately goes to Henry’s room, the first one in the corridor. It’s sort of… bittersweet, maybe, to be inside his room again. Regina had limited their seeing each other back in December — after Emma accusing her of using city funds to build a new house in the woods (not one of her best moments) — but she’d let Emma visit Henry for half an hour the day after Christmas, saying that Henry wouldn’t stop grumbling about how he missed Emma.

Though, every time she thinks about it, Henry seemed so surprised when Emma knocked on his door that day.

***

####  **March 7th, 2012**

Later, hand poised on the front door knob, Emma stops. She doesn’t know what possesses her to put down Henry’s backpack and walk back up the steps to the foyer. But before she can think better of it, she’s turning to the kitchen.

She spots the abandoned plate and silverware (missing the culprit, an _apple turnover_ of all things) on the marble countertop, very posh and expensive and— and she has to fight against this undefined emotion clawing up her throat that demands she breaks the plate into a million pieces.

Instead, she occupies herself by taking the forgotten tupperware that sits almost right next to the porcelain dish. It’s sort of tragically comical how they’d landed there, together. The two apple turnover containers. Emma’s in the reusable plastic. Regina’s on the... fancy dinnerware.

Like a metaphorical reminder of how out of place she is in this house. 

She groans, shaking her head at herself and her own tiredness. Now she’s making analogies with… What is she even doing? She should put this stuff away and _go._ Actually she shouldn’t even be here to begin with.

But the tupperware is right here, in her hand, and Emma recalls that in her haste to call an ambulance, she’d thrown it on the counter without caring where it landed, and it’s a miracle it’s not on the floor. She’d been so worried, full of adrenaline, heart in her throat.

She’ll put it away.

Call her superstitious, but it’s frightening to take the few steps from the counter to the drawers; what gives her pause is what she doesn’t find on the floor, and that is Regina’s blood. The paramedics cleaned it, but it’s still _there._

Call it an exaggeration, but it had been enough blood to give anyone some anxiety. Even from your supposed… nemesis. Or whatever they are to each other.

Emma can’t see it now, but it’s there. Seared into her brain.

With unsteady hands, Emma opens the first drawer next to the sink, suddenly feeling restless, like she has to do everything as quickly as possible to avoid stepping on this floor for longer than necessary.

It’s not the first drawer, of course. “Seriously? Why would anyone need so many?” Emma mumbles, staring at the measuring spoons, cups and all sorts of expensive cooking utensils. She closes the drawer before her lingering can be called snooping. (Which it already is, sort of.)

Emma hadn’t really paid attention when Regina got the tupperware earlier, so that’s her justification. She recalls it had been from one of these drawers, but not much else. She'd been more surprised about the strange olive branch being offered, and trying to ignore how every fiber of her being was screaming at her to be cautious.

But she’d still given Regina the benefit of the doubt.

Look where it got her.

It’s the second drawer, then. She stores the tupperware there next to other ones in all shapes and sizes and colors — and why does she need this many reusable plastic ones? —, then gently pushes the drawer with her hip to close it.

This fully stocked kitchen resembles something out of one of those TV cooking shows, like Chopped, or Iron Chef, even. Or a Hallmark movie. It’s unreal.

It’s clear that Regina enjoys cooking.

(Admittedly, the apple turnover had been so freaking good. A bit tarnished by the notion that it was supposed to contain sleeping curse poison, but yeah.)

Next, she turns on her feet and grabs the plate and the fork and the knife in one go, and lets out a shaky exhale. Placing them on the sink, she squirts as much detergent as she can onto the sponge and scrubs. And scrubs. And… thinks.

As much as she’d love to avoid doing so.

_I think that this… whatever’s between us needs to end._

_Every story in this book actually happened._

_It’s poisoned—_

_Please believe me, you have to believe me—_

_A sleeping curse, it’s a sleeping curse_

_Do you know what you’re going to do with the boy?_

Emma squeezes her eyes shut, tears escaping from her eyes unbidden (again). She lets go of the sponge, cold water running through her pruney fingers. It sharpens her senses a bit.

She shuts off the tap and leans against the marble counter, taking deep breaths.

_I never asked for this, I don’t want this, I—_

Sniffling, she uses her sleeve to dry her cheeks. And, as much as she tries to ignore it, from the corner of her eye she keeps seeing that portion of the floor that’s driving her _crazy._

She caves, then wonders where she will even find Regina’s cleaning stuff. There are so many cupboards and drawers; add to that, she still feels like she’s an intruder in this fancy house. But Emma’s obsession with the floor — just the floor? — won’t leave her alone, and she opens the cupboard below the sink, where she herself would store the few cleaning products she inevitably had to get when she moved into a new apartment, and finds what she’s looking for in her first try.

It doesn’t really make her feel better when she grabs another sponge, the already open disinfectant and scrubs the floor until her hands are cramping and her knees are sore.

She does it anyway. Pretends it makes a difference. Pretends she’s not crying, dreading the next few days, weeks, _months._ Pretends this has everything to do with an already clean floor and not with the changes in her life that just kept growing when she blew out that candle on her birthday.

Once the kitchen is back to its pristine existence, nothing out of place, _then_ Emma turns out the lights, the strong smell of disinfectant permeating everything, like she’d never left the hospital to begin with. It’s nauseating.

Her head hurts again.

She’d lingered as long as she could in the kitchen, cleaning the counter and putting away the dishes until she had pretty much memorized where everything went, but there’s nothing left to do now, and she hates this… this...

As Emma turns the front door knob and goes into the night, Henry’s backpack on her shoulder, this feeling of _helplessness_ hits her again, her stomach in knots when she’s forced back into her harsh, messed up reality. A reality where she has no _idea_ what she’s doing and how she’s supposed to process everything and not listen to her own head telling her to run away and never come back.

A reality where the only decent and helpful thing she’s actually done today was cleaning a bunch of dishes. Emma mainly failed at everything else.

(But she makes a mental note that she’ll likely have to return tomorrow to get the stuff from the fridge before it spoils.)

 _What would the Storybrooke citizens think, seeing their sheriff leaving the Mayoral Mansion at 1:43 AM?_ Emma wonders, starting the car with a tired sigh. _Great piece of news for the Mirror._

***

Regina can’t bring herself to move from the floor, no matter the phantom pain in her muscles from remaining on her knees for so long.

Isn’t it cruel? That she can hear everything that happens outside, loud and clear, echoing around the vast emptiness of the darkness?

Henry’s words had reduced her to a weeping mess. She wishes she could feel his presence. She wishes she hadn’t been so desperate. Wishes she went about things differently. She wishes, wishes, wishes.

Regina doesn’t understand how he can still care.

“After all, I’m not his real mom,” she mutters to herself. All it does is bring forth a new wave of tears to her eyes. She hits the floor with a fist, and growls at the lack of pain. There’s nothing to feel physically here, only permanent torment and her own bitter regrets.

Now everything’s unsettlingly quiet. Emma had taken him away not long after Henry had presumably given her his scarf to keep her warm.

Regina draws strength from the thought, deciding to get up and stop _whining_ about it. She moves to the torch on the wall and grabs it firmly, the allure of the fire too significant to ignore. (She feels nothing when she touches it, however. How disappointing.) 

As soon as she’s taken it from its sconce, there’s a shift in the air. Regina can’t help the way she jumps, her heart speeding up before she identifies it’s not someone else she sees around her; instead, it’s her own reflection repeated in a circle of several tall mirrors.

“Oh, what now?” she asks, glancing heavenward in exasperation. She heaves a sigh and places the torch back on its place with more force than necessary.

Trapped inside the Hall of Mirrors, if her memory serves her right.

All those years ago, she didn’t really study the effects of the Sleeping Curse in Maleficent’s borrowed spellbook beyond the general knowledge that it would bring Snow White _pain_ and _misery._

Something else to regret now, she supposes.

***

 _What the hell am I doing here._ Emma knocks more firmly on the door, calls “August?” one more time, aware that she might have just woken him up — woken everyone else in the B&B up (not that Granny has many customers), but she’s too exhausted to _care._ She knows she’s basically making up one avoidance after the other, and now it’s the loft’s turn, _but I’m too exhausted to care_. 

“Please open up,” she says. “I know you’re in there, so open the door.”

“I can’t,” he finally answers, muffled by the door.

_What? What do you mean by ‘can’t’?_

Something heavy settles in her stomach, a feeling in her gut that something’s not right.

So she kicks the door open, logically.

(Oh, how to explain that one to Granny?)

“I’m sorry about the late hour— No... What’s happening to you?” Emma says, eyeing August’s stiff position on the mattress, his arms completely turned into wood. It’s a bizarre image.

“You can see it now,” August replies in a faint voice. Like it takes a serious amount of effort to get words past his mouth. “You believe,” he whispers.

“Yeah, I do, but,” Emma breathes out, “but how do I stop this?”

“Break the curse.”

“I’ll try, I promise.” _I don’t know if I can succeed._ “But now Regina’s in a coma, and Henry is devastated, and—” Emma sits down on the edge of his bed. “I need your help.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Yeah, I do. This is all too much,” Emma says, shaking her head. “I just— I had to accept Henry’s idea that Regina poisoned herself with an apple turnover intended for me. My hands reek of disinfectant— I-I can’t deal with this. I can’t. No normal person can.”

“Luckily for us, you’re not normal,” he says in that matter-of-fact way of his, spending the last bit of his strength. It doesn’t help at all. Emma can only watch as wood begins to spread from his neck up. “You can save Regina. You can save all of…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, his expression freezing eerily as he turns into… a puppet. 

August has turned into Pinocchio. 

“August?”

For a moment she doesn’t dare move, maybe her mind is playing tricks on her, maybe this is just… Rubbing her eyes with shaky hands, she looks over him again, but he remains stock-still. It’s terrifying.

Emma isn’t certain she can still _cry._ She takes deep breaths, wondering _what now? I don’t have what it takes to save_ everyone. “I couldn’t save you,” she points out, cradling her head as the despair becomes overwhelming.

This day sucks.

***

Storybrooke is kinda creepy at night. That’s the only rational thought Emma’s able to produce at… she checks her wrist… _3:12 am?!_ No wonder she’s yawning so much. Keeping herself awake tomorrow is gonna be a challenge.

By the time she gets back to the loft, Henry’s full backpack in her hand, she just wants to throw herself on the bed and never wake up again. She opens the door with a wince, hoping she won’t disturb Mary Margaret. Well, to be fair, Emma’s discovered her friend is quite the heavy sleeper. Last night, Emma left at _eleven_ pm to get Henry and MM had been none the wiser. 

Wait.

God, that was _yesterday?_

She uses her phone’s light to grab her recently packed bag and tiptoes into the bathroom to change into her old baggy shorts and the first tank top she can find. She’s not picky.

She almost trips on nothing on her way up the stairs, but she’s _fine._ (As fine as she can be, she supposes.) She sets down her bag and Henry’s backpack far enough from the bed so she won’t accidentally kick them tomorrow.

“Emma?” Henry mumbles, squinting at her, propped up on the bed. It sounds more like “Ma” in his slurred speech. (And it’s so ridiculous that her heart skips a beat or two.)

“Yeah,” she whispers, carefully lowering herself onto the bed. “Go back to sleep, kid, it’s late.”

He hums and closes his eyes again with a yawn.

She sets the alarm to 7:00am, gets under the covers and passes out.

***

Everywhere she turns, her own reflection is there. It makes her dizzy, unsteady on her feet. It’s the worst possible nightmare to see herself over and over, and not just who she is now — she hadn’t known what the Hall of Mirrors entailed, but seeing other versions of herself and what they’d regretted, well.

The sleeping curse truly was a curse she should not have taken so lightly.

(She’s scared. Afraid. Afraid of losing her own sanity inside this place. Her memories, her own self, fragmented for her to see and obsess over and relive memories she’d rather never think of again. Relive her worst regrets.)

And Regina knows there’s not much chance she’ll get out. Her true love is dead. (Another regret that plays in a loop. Cora taking him aside. Lulling him — and Regina — into a false sense of safety. Ripping his heart out—)

She curls into a ball on the floor, closing her eyes, but the memories follow her still. She hears the whispers that dare her to look. Just a little peak. _Remember, Regina? Remember what you did? Do you regret it?_

“Yes, I _do!”_ she snaps, screaming. Feeling the pain and regret and loss all over again and being powerless, completely powerless to stop it — now and then — is tearing her apart.

She falls for the tricks the mirrors play on her, and looks.

Her younger self cradles Daniel’s body close to her chest, kisses him, foolishly hopes it’s just a curse, that her love will be enough to save him.

It isn’t.

Tears fall. She can’t stop crying, head and heart in agony. She lets the faint sensation of cold in her own metaphysical body wash over her and numb her mind again.

She feels empty, her heart shriveling up from the dryness of loneliness and self-loathing and darkness.

***

By the time Emma gets downstairs in the morning, red leather jacket thrown over her arm, Henry’s already there, still in yesterday’s clothes and with his head cushioned by his arms on the table, a glass of orange juice untouched next to him.

Emma puts the jacket down on the back of her chair.

“You okay?” Emma asks, touching his head.

“I’m just resting my eyes,” he mumbles to the wood.

“He’s upset,” Mary Margaret mouths to her as she hands her a cup of coffee.

Emma nods, a lump in her throat, and accepts the coffee eagerly as she sits down. She’s not really sure how she didn’t ignore her 7 o’clock alarm.

“How about I get you something from Granny’s?” she asks him and waits, sipping her coffee, a heaviness to her shoulders.

“Can I get a grilled cheese?” he asks, finally peeking at her with red-rimmed eyes.

Smiling softly, Emma nods. “Awesome choice. I’ll ask Ruby for double the cheese. How’s that?”

“Do I have to go?” he asks, averting his eyes as he occupies himself with his glass of juice, turning it this way and that.

“To Granny’s? No need, it’s just down the street.”

Emma watches as Henry stops, his hands flat on the table, lips trembling.

Sometimes it’s easy for Emma to forget Henry is still ten. He’s so smart and acts older than his age, but really, he’s just a little kid who’s afraid to face the world now that everything has changed so much.

“I meant school,” he replies. “Just for today?”

Emma hesitates. “Uh.”

Mary Margaret sets her mug down and pipes up, “I can give you the homework later, Henry. It’s alright.” She raises her eyebrows at Emma.

Emma clears her throat. “Yes, uh. You can… stay here,” she says, feeling she’s been put on the spot. How’s she supposed to make these decisions? How would she know what’s best for him? “Mary Margaret will let Principal…”

“Hoffman,” she provides.

“Will let Principal Hoffman know,” Emma amends.

***

Her hand automatically fishes for a newspaper on the stand just outside Granny’s as her other hand pulls the door open.

The bell rings in its awfully loud way, announcing her presence to the other patrons.

It’s not that she minded it that much when she’d been the focus of everyone’s gossip back in October, but these people sure are _not_ subtle. Everybody turns to her; the stares nearly melting her face as she makes her way to the counter, but Emma pretends nothing is wrong.

 _They know,_ she realizes, and while waiting for Ruby to finish serving Leroy, she finally glances at the Storybrooke Daily Mirror she’s holding. She’s not prepared to see the headline. Or the charming black and white photo of Regina Mills smiling. The picture was taken that day at the mines, when they briefly worked together to save Henry and Archie.

(She’s tried to forget, but it’s impossible: the way Regina got closer and closer until they were close enough to… _kiss._

But surely Emma’s mind was wrong. Surely not.

 _Just bring him to me,_ Regina had pleaded with tearful eyes, and it had stirred something in her heart.)

“Emma?” Ruby tries to catch her gaze. Emma finally looks up, blinking, and stops herself from crumpling the paper even more.

“Uh, yeah, I’m— Yeah. Grilled cheeses?” Emma asks, voice hoarse and low.

“Coming right up,” Ruby says brightly. She knows something’s up, but thankfully doesn’t comment on it, not while the diner is packed and everyone is paying attention to the conversation. “Anything else?”

“To go, please. Extra cheese for Henry, if that’s possible?” Emma asks, and Ruby gives her a nod of understanding, sparing a glance at the newspaper.

“Of course, anything for the kid.”

“Thanks, you’re a lifesaver, Rubes.” Emma says.

“Yes, I am,” Ruby smiles, and leans a bit forward on the counter. “But really, let me know if you want to talk, alright? We may not work together anymore, but I’m here as your friend.”

Emma’s not used to this: people who genuinely have her back. She’s always been by herself, she’d learned at a young age not to rely on anyone.

And whenever she did trust someone, she got hurt.

Storybrooke has shown her a different side to people.

Emma nods, saying, “I appreciate that.”

“I’ll get that order for ya,” Ruby says with a wave as she goes to the back of the diner.

Left to her own devices, Emma decides to take a seat on a stool then peruses the article while she waits.

_MAYOR IN A COMA_

* * *

_Michael Wong_

_News staff_

  


Mayor of Storybrooke Regina Mills was admitted into the Storybrooke General Hospital last night after being found unconscious in her house

 **Storybrooke, Maine** — The Storybrooke Daily Mirror has received most shocking news earlier this morning. The mayor of Storybrooke, Regina Mills, was admitted into the Intensive Care Department of the Storybrooke General Hospital last night shortly after 9 pm, after being found unconscious in her house by Sheriff Emma Swan, and the mayor’s son, Henry Mills, according to a few eye-witnesses.

An ambulance was seen parked in front of 108 Mifflin Street at around 8:45 pm; a Storybrooke resident who wishes to remain anonymous claims that Regina was wounded, which could have been caused by an assailant. The Daily Mirror was not provided with more details on what might have caused this.

Emma stops reading, gritting her teeth against the urge to shout at everyone inside this diner until she finds the Storybrooke resident responsible for this. God, it’s good that Henry hasn’t seen it. Emma hadn’t even considered that the gossip might be spread even faster thanks to the freaking _newspaper._ This insensitive piece of garbage, dishing out this information like it was nothing of importance, as if Henry hadn’t spent over an hour crying and grieving and pleading with Emma to believe him.

Regina, a force to be reckoned with, has just turned into a tragic piece of news.

Of course, besides her anger at the paper there’s the anger at Regina, for the poison that was meant for Emma, and the headline that could have been her instead, and the way Emma doesn’t understand why she can’t just say _You deserved it_ and be done with it.

**Regina Mills,** 36, was said to be in perfect health before the incident. According to the Hospital, she had to be stabilized and was already in a catatonic state when she arrived. It remains unknown whether this catatonic state is long term or not.

Sheriff Emma Swan was not available for comment.

Please see > **Mayor Mills A10**

Oh, then that’s the missed call she saw on her phone this morning. Good thing she missed it, or she might have chosen quite a few bad words to say to them.

Emma doesn’t even want to pay the 5 cents for this thing. She just wants to burn it.

She throws it in the first trashcan available outside, focusing instead on getting Henry his grilled cheese.

***

 _“Hi Mom,”_ Henry says. _“Emma let me stop by Game of Thorns before coming here. Well, I told her what was your favorite flower and she got it for me. I hope that’s okay.”_

He pauses, and Regina waits with bated breath, fixedly staring at her own tired eyes in the nearest mirror. It had been a rough night. Or day. It’s difficult to tell the time in this place.

There are memories and more memories to live through. Her worst moments. At some point after Henry’s visit she passed out, nearly pleading for it to _stop,_ and wanting nothing more than to sink into oblivion.

Nevertheless, letting his voice soothe her now, she’s certain not even a hundred regrets could take away from the fact that her son cares, enough to have visited again. Enough to not mention the Evil Queen. Asking Emma if it was okay to love her, despite everything.

The mirrors have given her a small reprieve, for now. While Henry’s here, talking to her.

_“I brought you a purple iris. It’s a small vase. I think I’m gonna ask Mr. French to make a bouquet. But I want to research flower meanings to make it extra special.”_

“Henry…” Regina says.

_“And… please don’t get angry, but I... I skipped school today.”_

She starts instinctively, “What? Why did you—” But stops herself, shaking her head. “It’s okay. I’m not— That’s the _last_ thing to worry about,” she sighs.

 _“I wasn’t… I didn’t want to deal with all the questions today. And I was sad. I mean… I_ am _sad. I miss— I miss you, Mom.”_ He sniffles, then she hears him crying again, and it’s her fault, she did this, she did this to him—

Regina holds her stomach against the onslaught of guilt festering inside. “I’m sorry, Henry. _I’m sorry.”_

***

Watching him from the glass doors, Emma’s brow furrows as he starts crying, hiding his face in his hands. Should she go in? But he needs his space to grieve, right? What should she—

She lowers her head, biting the inside of her cheek. She gets the sudden feeling that all she’s done by staying in Storybrooke is ruin things. Here, with Henry devastated for his mom, she sees how everything got complicated very fast, and small town dramas became _so much more._ She has to push aside this guilt that doesn’t even belong to her. Really, it should be Regina’s for all she’s done to this kid, but still…

Still it’s there. Because Emma _is_ guilty of thinking that putting Henry in a car and driving away from this town was what’s best for him. Emma is guilty of fomenting this war of legal battles and not so legal shenanigans to bring Regina down. Emma is guilty of not seeing that this wasn’t so black and white as it may have seemed.

How can she repair this? Be the savior Henry needs? Be the savior _everyone needs?_

She watches in confusion as he unwinds his grey and red striped scarf from his neck, but then… then he places it in Regina’s motionless hand, the one free from all the wires. 

“Hey kid,” she manages to say, entering the room and blinking back tears. “Ready to go?”

Henry’s head turns to her, and he smiles just a tiny bit. “Yeah. I’m just making sure Mom is warm enough.”

Yesterday, before they left the room, she’d seen the way he’d enveloped both of her hands with his yellow scarf. Today, it seems, he’s exchanging it for his other one.

“It’s not that cold in here,” she says while he puts his yellow scarf around his neck. “She’ll be okay.”

“No, we gotta talk to Ms. Disla, Emma. I think it’s something to do with the sleeping curse,” he whispers the last part, walking up to her. “She needs another blanket, I forgot last night.”

“Okay,” she nods, arm around his shoulders. “Let’s do that before we go.”

She has to keep trying. She has to fix this. For him.

***

####  **March 9th, 2012**

It was a difficult morning for him. That’s what Emma surmises, letting out a puff of air between her lips as the school bus takes off, a sullen Henry inside. 

He’d pretended to be asleep when Emma’s alarm went off, (and yeah, she would also like to pretend to be asleep, but we all have responsibilities, kiddo) then he claimed to be extremely, absolutely exhausted, meaning _‘I can’t go to school today’._ “Let me stay here, pleeeeeease,” he’d whined.

Emma hadn’t caved this time, and Mary Margaret told her in hushed tones (lest they be overheard by the sneaky kid) that as much as he’d think otherwise, going to school was good. A sense of normalcy was good for him.

“I just don’t understand why he’s acting like this today,” Emma had whispered back, studying the way he was pushing his cereal around the bowl without much enthusiasm. “He seemed okay with school yesterday, right?”

“Yes, but now he has to actually interact with other people, Emma,” Mary Margaret explained. “It takes some time to adjust, that’s all.”

Now, as a reward for a mission accomplished, she swivels on her feet and enters Storybrooke Coffee Co — and seriously, why is everything named with Storybrooke in front of it?

 _How original,_ she muses, then remembers that the town was created by Regina, which means it’s all part of Regina’s originality. Then again, what if she had nothing to do with it and the curse was a premade deal—

Emma laughs at herself. Not long ago, she didn’t believe Storybrooke was a cursed town. Now here she is, walking around a place that feels familiar and foreign at once, burdened with knowledge about its people that they don’t know themselves.

She thanks the cashier with wide eyes and an unsettled mind, grabs her second coffee of the day — a large mocha with extra chantilly and extra sugar, because... why not? She’s already buying from here and not from Granny’s —, and takes a long sip, uncaring if she burns her tongue in the process.

Oh, this is great.

As Emma turns into 3rd Avenue to get to the Sheriff’s Station, she takes the time to breathe, and to sip her mocha in pure bliss, pumping caffeine and loads of sugar into her blood. She says hi to a few citizens along the way, and it’s nice, nice to pretend this is just another day in Storybrooke, which involves boring paperwork and answering calls about Pongo running lose again or one of that lovely old lady’s cats hiding somewhere or tuning out when Miss Ginger starts with her complaints again. 

See? Nice.

Letting the cold bite the skin on her cheeks is great, which probably means Emma’s in way over her head.

At 3pm on the dot, as promised, she’s parked in front of Storybrooke Elementary to pick up Henry.

Soon enough, she spots him dragging his feet, Mary Margaret’s worried gaze trained on him. She waves at her roommate, who smiles and waves back wholeheartedly, as though they didn’t see each other this morning.

“Hey, kid,” Emma starts once he gets to the car and opens the door, but his answer is to slam it shut after he climbs in. Ouch. That must’ve hurt her sensitive Bug.

“Whoa, what’s with the long face?” she asks.

“Nothing.” He lets his head fall back against the seat. “Can we buy flowers again?” The question is posed quickly, and his gaze is set on the world outside the car, firmly holding his backpack to his chest.

“Uh, well, we can…” she replies without thinking much, but frowns, confused by the non-sequitur and by his tense posture. Then she makes sense of his words. “Wait, you already did your research?” When did he— “For the bouquet?” she clarifies, just in case.

“No, this isn’t for Mom, Emma,” Henry interrupts in an exasperated tone. Someone’s in a _mood._ “It’s for my abuelo.”

Wait, her kid knows another language? Why didn’t she know that? “Huh.”

Emma taps on the steering wheel, head tilted, trying to recall what the word means. Was that Spanish? It sounded like Spanish. God, she barely even had any language classes, because she kept changing schools so often so why pay attention at all? “What’s… ab… um... What does it mean?”

Now facing the window and thus avoiding her entirely, he says, “Abuelo. It means grandpa.”

“Oh. Gotcha.” She nods, starting the car. “Seatbelt on, kid. Wouldn’t want the sheriff to catch you,” she says jokingly, but when she glances at him there’s no reaction at all besides clicking his into place. “Come on, that was funny.”

He shrugs.

“Your mom’s dad?” Emma inquires once she’s pulled away from the curb, wondering when would be a good time to ask him about school.

“Yeah. Mom used to… she leaves some flowers for him on Wednesdays,” he says, fiddling with one of the shoulder straps on his backpack.

Now that Henry’s mentioned it, she recalls that night that feels a lifetime ago, the night where they traded punches like it was nothing. Regina had said something about her father before it all went downhill.

Sometimes she forgets that Regina is a real person that had (has?) parents. She never bothered to ask.

To be honest, she avoided thinking of Regina beyond professional reasons after she realized that—

_Don’t think about it. Nope. That’s over and dealt with._

“You know Spanish?” asks Emma to avoid thinking of _that_ again, eyeing Henry from her side vision as she drives. Henry finally looks at her, seemingly calmer now that they’ve left the school behind them, and nods. “You never told me! Is it the only language you know?”

“It’s my mom’s second language, so… that’s why I know it. It was our thing, before… before last year happened, I guess.”

Emma winces. Before she happened, then. “So Regina taught you? She’s fluent?”

“Sí,” Henry answers readily. “Mi mamá me enseñó a hablar en español.”

“Hey, is that a smile I see?” Emma teases, turning right so they can stop by Game of Thorns.

“No.” He answers in a deadpan tone, and it’s so _Regina_ that Emma has to do a double-take, eyes off the road for a second. She barely stops herself from chuckling.

“It’s pretty cool, though,” she says instead. “That you know another language, I mean.”

“Yeah,” he says, ruminating on her words, but definitely closing the subject for now.

After they get a bouquet of white lilies (and wow, Moe French is getting rich with all the flowers they keep buying), Emma drives them to the cemetery, letting Henry have his silence.

But Emma has to ask him about school to help him, right? It’s not good for him to keep it to himself and turn up to the car every day with a sad face and a… decidedly not sunny disposition.

Therefore, when they park and Emma turns off the car, she asks, “How was school today?”

Henry, who’d just removed his seatbelt, crosses his arms and pouts. “I don’t like school anymore,” he mutters.

_Oh, hey, he’s ready to talk!_

“Why not?”

“It’s terrible! My classmates won’t stop staring at me or trying to be _nice,_ and even Mr. Hoffman said he was sorry— That won’t change anything! And, and, I never had a single friend there before, and now—” Henry falters, cheeks rosy from saying all that at once. “Now I don’t want to go there, Emma.”

Opening her arms, she says, “Hey, hey, come here,” then embraces him. It feels awkward, not just because of the Bug’s cramped interior, but also because of Henry’s reluctant acceptance of it.

“It sucks,” he says, voice trembling.

Emma hugs him tighter, trying to think of what Mary Margaret would say. Because Emma always feels at a loss, always feels she’s mistepping or just not doing her best for him.

How did she ever think she could just… take Henry away from his mom?

“Yeah, I can’t lie to you and say it doesn’t suck,” she says eventually. “But things do get better. Remember what you said to me the other day?”

He looks expectantly at her, and she pulls back a bit to grab the box of tissues from the glove compartment, handing it to him.

Emma smiles. “You told me the heroes have low points before they fight back.”

He blows his nose and gives the snotty tissue to her. She does a fairly good job of keeping her disgust to herself — yeah, she’s learning, this mom thing — as she throws it in the car trash bag.

Baby steps.

“Come on, let’s start walking before it gets too late to visit the hospital.”

***

The leaves crunching beneath their feet, they head towards the mausoleum together, Henry carefully holding the bouquet of flowers in his hands. He has no idea what to do next. Coming here was the only thing he could think of, and it’s like guessing what’s for dinner without Mom having started to make it: nearly impossible to know the result.

Emma’s words are proof she listened to him, right? It’s proof that maybe she’s accepting she’s a hero! Though… is this her low point? Because she seems better _now_ than she was two days ago, when she was _this_ close to abandoning everything.

 _Oh. She wasn’t talking about herself._ “I’m not a hero,” he says, finally understanding what she meant.

“Who said that?” replies Emma, turning on her feet until she can walk backwards and look into his eyes. She can be so weird. “You’re the one who knows everything about Operations, kid. Without you, Regina would have figured us out…”

Emma stops in her tracks, lifts a hand to her forehead, almost facepalming herself. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he says with a shrug, stopping as well. It’s okay because he knows Emma’s doing her best. It hurts to talk about his mom, yes, but he doesn’t want to stop. Stopping feels like acceptance that she’s not coming back and—

He can’t handle that.

“I’ve been thinking,” he starts, “I told Mom she wasn’t my real mom, and I don’t mean that anymore. She _is_ my mom, even if… Do you think…”

“Yeah?”

“Do you think Mom would’ve done what she did if I hadn’t said I didn’t want to be with her?”

Emma opens her mouth, then closes it, hands on her hips as she considers the answer. 

“I’ve told you before,” she finally says, “this is _not_ your fault. Regina and I let you get caught in the middle of this, and it’s _our_ fault, Henry. I don’t know what would have happened, but I know that I made several mistakes along the way. I’m sure your mom would also agree now.”

He cocks his head. “You think so?”

Emma nods, then motions for them to keep walking. “I hate that it took something so terrible for me to see it, but yes, I think so. And hey, we’ll find a way to break the curse. I know we haven’t really had the time to talk about it, but I haven’t forgotten about Operation Cobra.” 

_What about Operation Save Mom?_

He stays quiet as they stand in front of the vault. Everywhere he goes he’s reminded of how much he misses Mom and everything they used to do together and how much he wants her back, even if he shouldn’t.

Emma eventually pushes the heavy door open and tells him she’ll wait outside to let him have some time alone.

***

Ten minutes later, Henry stands on the top step sans flowers, and starts squirming, avoiding her eyes.

“What is it?” Emma asks, arms crossed against her chest.

“I didn’t come here just because of the flowers...” he says, a sheepish smile on his face.

“Of course you didn’t...”

“Please hear me out! Come on!” he says before turning on his feet and disappearing inside again.

Emma sighs. _“Henry…”_

She takes two steps inside the place and decides she has to stop letting Henry do weird things in the name of this Operation. This is going too far.

“I remember Graham thought there was something here,” he continues. “Maybe we can find something to help us! The Evil Queen must have brought some magic with her.”

_Graham. The Evil Queen. Magic._

“No, no, no.” She places her hands on his shoulders to turn him towards the exit. “Forget it, we’re not breaking and entering, alright? That’s… bad. Very bad.” Nevermind that she did it hundreds of times in her life. “Let’s just… don’t you have any other ideas? Something less... illegal?”

“Nope,” he says, popping the ‘p’, but follows her outside without complaint.

“Really? Nothing?”

Henry shrugs, shoving his hands inside his coat.

She starts crumpling a few fallen leaves under her boot, and tries to come up with something that does not involve this place. She shivers just thinking that Graham might have been right, and that there _are_ things like _hearts_ hidden somewhere inside. She doesn’t even want to imagine it.

 _Wait…_ she pauses her leaf-stomping, looking again at the vault. Didn’t Graham say his heart was missing? That Regina took it? He was so adamant his heart was in there. And Emma didn’t believe him. Emma merely indulged him because he looked so shaken and tired and ill. She brushed it off like it was a _coincidence._

Her mind spiraling, she feels nauseous all of a sudden as she grips the shoelace on her wrist.

Regina must have—

Must have k—

“Wait!” says Henry, interrupting her thoughts, and she staggers backwards. Her knees nearly give out from the sudden dizziness. Oh god, oh god, Henry was right, Regina _killed_ Graham— “I could talk to… Emma, are you okay?” he asks worriedly, taking a step closer.

“I’m…” she starts, but then thinks better of it. She can’t reopen this wound in front of him, she _can’t._

What would she even say?

 _I’m sorry I didn’t believe you? I’m sorry your mom killed Graham? I’m sorry your mom is the_ Evil Queen. A murderer.

No, she can’t say any of that.

“I’m fine,” is all she manages, letting go of her wrist. She gives him the best smile she can muster, but she probably looks like shit.

“You look pale, Emma,” he says, concern very much present in his tone.

“Do I?” She waves it off, then proceeds to rub her clammy hands against her jeans. “I think I’m a bit dizzy. Hungry, y’know? Happens sometimes. What were you going to say?”

She changes the subject so fast it gives _herself_ whiplash, but even then she can’t stop thinking about her most recent fucked up discovery.

And Henry doesn’t look particularly convinced, but thankfully doesn’t press the issue. Oh, the joys of dealing with kids sometimes. “I was gonna say that we could talk to August, I mean, Pinocchio.”

Emma freezes again. “Oh. I forgot about August.”

It just keeps getting better, huh?

“Emma… what do you mean?”

She groans, holding back her tears. _It’s one thing after the other, I swear!_ “He turned into wood that night. I was gonna do something about it, I really was, but then yesterday was pure chaos with that emergency council meeting, and—”

“What?!” Henry exclaims. “August is— is—”

“No!” Emma hastens to say, then consciously inhales and exhales to avoid having a panic attack in front of him. “I don’t think he’s…” She clears her throat. And stops herself before she says anything related to Death before she gets sick. _Regina killed Graham._ “August said to break the curse,” she offers weakly.

“Okay.” He accepts it like it makes _sense,_ nodding with a serious expression only children can accomplish. “That’s true. His arm had turned into wood the last time we talked.”

“Uh huh… I’m not even going to ask…”

“So maybe he just needs magic,” says Henry, but then his expression falls, and he looks so _tired._

_You and me both, kid._

“The list just keeps growing, Emma…”

She glances heavenward, asking for strength. “Yeah, kid. It does.”

***

“Ah, do my eyes deceive me or is that the look of a believer?” quips Mr. Gold as soon as he hears the little bell, staring amusedly at Emma from behind the counter, a notebook open in front of him.

Emma rolls her eyes, but strides into the room. “I need your help,” she states.

“Indeed you do,” he says, then looks down again, annotating some other inventory thing, then setting the pen aside to give her his full attention. Finally. “I was wondering when you would show up. I did consider leaving a message. But now, here you are.”

 _Why so much interest in this, Mr. Gold?_ Emma muses, staring at him and trying to understand what he gains from her being here.

“You _are_ awake, then,” Emma says. It had been a gamble, coming here. But after they’d left the cemetery, Emma and Henry had theorized about who else might know about the curse, and the first name that popped in her mind was Gold. With the way he and Regina were often in cahoots with each other (or at odds), there was a great possibility that he knew everything.

Afterwards, she’d dropped Henry off at the hospital, promising she’d stop by the pawnshop before going back to pick him up.

“Rumplestiltskin, at your service,” Gold is saying as he touches his chest in mock-deference. He even adds a little twirl to the ‘R’, which is all kinds of _weird._ Even so, Emma sags in relief; this means she and Henry aren’t alone. This means they might have a higher chance of fixing things. He closes the notebook, and continues, “It seems quite the tragic ailment has befallen our _… esteemed_ mayor.”

“Tell me about it.” Emma rolls her eyes. Being completely honest, the whole thing is so ridiculous. The ‘tragic ailment’ is so ridiculous. A freaking _mistake._

“Not too excited about the outcome, I take it.” He grabs his cane and points at her with the handle, “I thought you of all people would have jumped at the opportunity to stay with Henry.”

“Yeah, well. I didn’t want her in a _coma,”_ Emma spits out the last word, appalled that he’d think she’d be _happy_ with this. “I was ready to leave town. She should’ve just left things alone.”

“You and I both know that’s not how it works with Regina. She was very adamant she had to get rid of you. Mind you, she knew she couldn’t kill the Savior. Hence the apple.”

“Why not? Why go through all that trouble?”

“The curse would break if you died. That’s how I designed it.”

 _Interesting._ “Oh, so you’re the one behind all this?”

“Regina was the one who cast it, so… When people wake up, who do you think is getting the blame?”

 _Clever bastard._ Emma leans her hands on the counter. “God, people will be pissed.”

“Quite.” His cane clicking in a distinctive pattern on the floor, he takes the notebook with him to store it on the other side of the shop. He just can’t stay still, can he? “I did suggest she plan a trip of her own. Not a fan favorite back in our land, you see.”

Emma scoffs, turning on her feet to follow his every movement. “I’m pretty sure _you_ weren’t, either — and I just about had a mental breakdown in front of the kid when I realized Regina’s responsible for Graham’s death.”

His eyes twinkling, he whistles. “Ah... When it comes to that, I find I cannot stand on the moral high ground, Ms. Swan.”

“Yeah? I don’t know why, but I figured as much.”

“Hm.” He studies her for a moment, now tapping his fingers on the glass of the display case. “Neither can your parents, for that matter,” he says. Emma shifts uncomfortably. She’s been avoiding this particular subject like the plague. Her _parents._ “Haven’t talked with Mary Margaret as of yet, have you?”

“None of your business.” Emma answers, her tone sharp like a knife, and sighs. Talking to him requires too much patience. Patience she doesn’t really _have._ If he keeps taunting her like this, she might just break something. Maybe one of these guitars behind him — now _that_ would be satisfying.

“Fair enough,” he says in acquiescence. He just likes to annoy people, and Emma should know better. “Let’s talk about our business, then. What is it you want?”

 _To be living a nightmare and able to wake from it._ “How do we break Regina’s curse?” she asks instead.

“True love’s kiss,” is his immediate reply, and she absolutely hates magic, it’s official. _True. Love._ What the hell. “But young Henry already knew that, didn’t he?”

“I don’t know, probably,” says Emma, regretting everything. “But that’s _really_ the only option?”

“I’m afraid so.”

You see, Gold has this little tell — his nostrils flair ever so slightly when he’s lying. Or not being completely truthful. She’s seen it before, when he failed to mention the fact that his ‘merchandise’ was a _baby,_ Ashley’s baby. When he knew she’d win the election, because he’d make sure of it. When he said he’d wait before doing something irrational about Moe’s situation.

Emma had to learn pretty early on how to read people. That, combined with her ‘superpower’...

It makes Emma narrow her eyes, scrutinizing him as she ascertains, “You’re hiding something.”

His expression goes blank in the next second, and he starts walking around the counter to stand in the middle of the shop with her, leaning closer as he says, “Believe it or not, I would benefit from the curse breaking, Savior,” as though sharing an important secret with her.

 _Savior._ It echoes in her head, and the words leave a bad taste in her mouth even if she wasn’t the one to say it.

“Fine, don’t tell me what it is.” Emma shrugs like it doesn’t bother her (but she will keep thinking about it). “But, since you need it to break so much, well… in that case you’re gonna help me,” she says firmly. “I need an apartment. To keep August in until the curse breaks.”

Mr. Gold chuckles, and takes a step back. “Oh, turned into wood already? Anyhow, I don’t think that’s how it works — I’m the one who makes deals around here, dearie. And as I pointed out to Regina, a negotiation requires _two_ interested parties, not just one.”

“Okay, how about this: I won’t even _consider_ working on breaking the curse before I deal with everything else.”

He stares at her for a minute. “I do have our late sheriff’s apartment on hold,” he says eventually through gritted teeth.

Emma gives him a tight-lipped smile, and it’s great how she doesn’t even flinch when reminded of Graham again. “Perfect,” she says.

“You know,” he starts in a light tone, “Mr. Booth may have failed in making you believe as promised, but his work wasn’t all in vain.”

It takes a moment for his words to register.

 _“What?”_ she snaps, her voice too loud for the shop. “God, all of you had this— this conspiracy theory against me, is that it?!” She raises her hand, ready to hit something— This ugly statue, maybe—

“Careful, Sheriff,” he says, eyeing her hand with displeasure. “Breaking something in the shop might be above your paycheck.”

“Whatever,” she mutters, dropping her hand and turning to the door’s direction. “Just get this done,” she replies as her parting words, and takes her exit.

***

_“...I visited abuelo’s grave today, Mom. I forgot to do it on Wednesday for you, but I did it today.”_

Regina’s throat spasms, and she stretches her hand on the floor until the whole palm is stung by the cool touch; a single word enough to bring tears to her eyes.

“Tudo bien, cariño,” she says, voice rough and catching at the last word.

_“Emma got the white lilies for me.”_

“I hope she didn’t go messing with my garden,” Regina says, unsure if she’s joking or not.

_“Mom, how do you know Spanish? Was the food the same there? The culture? I-I never stopped to think about it after I found the book. You’re from the Enchanted Forest, not from here. Can— can you tell me one day? Can you tell me what it was like there?”_

Regina closes her eyes, vague memories of her early childhood spent in her grandfather’s kingdom swirling in her head, but they were mostly tainted by Cora’s constricting expectations and grand plans — letting go of her heritage to be _more._ Be _more_ than Cora as a miller’s daughter ever was. And that meant giving up a part of herself. (How many pieces did she give up along the way?)

Oh, it’s been so long since they last talked in Spanish. Regina always did her best to teach Henry about where she came from. An adapted version, of course. It’s bittersweet, now.

“I can try, sweetheart,” Regina answers, despite it all. Daddy would have loved it, she knows. He would have loved to meet her little prince.

 _“...I miss you, Mom.”_ Henry’s voice is faint, and so he whispers it again, hesitantly this time, _“Te extraño.”_

***

The moments Henry spends with her are the only times the darkness recedes; her son’s desire to bring her comfort and companionship a balm for her tortured soul.

He wants to bring her some comfort.

_“I hope you’re not too cold now, Mom.”_

And he _wants_ her to be back.

_“We’ll fix this.”_

Oh, but it aches. The longing to see him, hug him, not hesitate anymore to say _I love you_ without having to justify her actions.

No lies. Only the truth. Promise him to be better, to do better.

Her head spins, her heart cracks every day a bit more, because she hears his pain when he visits. She knows he’s hurting, because of her mistakes. Because of her wrongdoings. And, most of all, because she put the curse first, Henry second.

Never again.

 _Perhaps you giving up Henry is just the price to keep the curse unbroken,_ Rumple had said to her, and her solution was to get rid of Emma Swan, which was _still_ placing Henry second.

And as much as she despises the thought, she paid the price for doing so.

However, she does not believe she’ll be afforded a second chance, not again.

Acknowledging this… it hurts. She’s lost _everything._

So when he leaves Regina does what she does best: she destroys. Her blazer is torn from her body and ripped apart in a fit of rage and despair, then thrown to the floor. She punches the first mirror within her reach, glad for the sharp sound against the permanent silence in this hell — it cracks, then shatters into a million pieces.

She looks down at her shivering hands with apathy, watching as a drop of blood slithers from between her fingers to the black floor. There’s no pain to be felt here, but the destruction suits her quite nicely.

Later, she will wonder what that even accomplished; the mirror repairs itself, her cuts disappear, and her blazer is back on her body like nothing happened. As though this was but another nightmarish scene her brain conjured.

The relief she feels from this little bout of destruction is quick to disappear, leaving her just as cold and empty as before.

***

That night, as much as she tries, Emma can’t fall asleep. (Nothing different from the other nights so far.) She lies awake in her bed, staring up at the ceiling and listening to Henry’s soft snores next to her. She presses her hands to her eyes and sighs quietly, trying to regulate her breathing.

She plays her conversation with Gold in her head, but as much as she tries her anger at Regina and Gold and everyone meddling with her life is still very much _there,_ and she has to turn on her side and shove her face onto the pillow to calm herself down before she starts crying or screaming (or both?) and wakes up the entirety of Storybrooke.

Eventually, she just removes Graham’s shoelace from her wrist and fiddles with it. Emma knows it’s kind of weird to have kept it, but she wanted something to remember him by.

Those two weeks in November had been tough, she remembers. Intense. Being a deputy, Emma had been involved with knowing every detail about Graham’s autopsy. She’d had to adjust to seeing his empty office. She’d had to realize she missed him as her friend, missed the way he cared, missed his easy banter. (She could count on her fingers the people she missed.) But she didn’t necessarily miss him as a… potential… something.

It doesn’t matter, and she’s not going there right now — it’s a whole other can of worms that _also_ involves Regina.

The point here is that she’s not sure she can look at Regina now without wanting to shout at her and demand answers. _Why did you do it? Do you regret it?_

Regina can’t answer right now, can’t assuage Emma’s guilt about having to help her, and that’s the worst part. She stares at Henry’s sleeping form, wondering just how he coped with the knowledge that Regina killed Graham. He’d known all along.

And now? Is it that simple — because of his love for his mom, he accepts everything else, even though he knows she’s the Evil Queen?

God, what’s up with that, too?

She can’t really see Regina as this… caricature fairytale character. She’s just… Regina, ‘Madam Mayor’. A royal? Okay, yes, Emma can agree with that, but as a royal _pain in the ass._

Then there’s… the fact that… _Rumplestiltskin_ and _Pinocchio_ had been trying to make her believe in the curse, just as Henry was. That’s what caused her to storm out of the pawnshop — Gold made a passing comment that perhaps August hadn’t failed after all and she’d almost broke one of the glass counters in her rage.

This has her anxiety levels climbing through the roof, because apparently everyone needs her, everyone is always deciding for her and she’s part of something bigger than herself— doesn’t she matter? (Well, apparently a kingdom was more important to her parents than she was.)

She’d seen the look in Gold’s eyes this afternoon. He’d _known,_ the smug bastard, he’d expected her reaction when he delivered his final blow. Like she was destined to break the curse and she was going to do so, no free will whatsoever; maybe _that_ was what had her nearly throwing one of those ugly knickknacks to the floor. She didn’t ask for any of it, doesn’t want it, she wants…

What does she even want?

Right now, she wants to sleep — so she stubbornly closes her eyes and wills herself to stop replaying today’s events over and over again.

***

####  **March 10th, 2012**

The brightness has her squinting at her phone. It’s 6:00 am; an hour earlier from the time Emma’s usually up, but she didn’t get a wink of sleep, tossing and turning all night. Around four she’d decided to turn off her alarm. She rubs a hand on her face, feeling the exhaustion in her bones.

It’s no use trying to get some sleep now, but she’ll let Henry have his. She tiptoes out of the bedroom, keeping her feet light — the wooden boards have the tendency to creak a lot — as she grabs one of her white workout tank tops and running yoga capri pants.

Before long, she’s inside the bathroom downstairs. Tying her hair up since she’s not washing it now, she turns on the shower and rids herself of her pajamas, kicking them aside.

Hot water runs down her back, her cold feet stinging from the sudden heat, but Emma welcomes it with a sigh.

However, every time she closes her eyes, she sees Regina sprawled on the kitchen floor — last night’s nightmare — and that scares her, because she can’t remember Graham’s face clearly anymore or the way he felt in her arms as he doubled over in pain, but Regina’s blood, cold skin, and immobile body are vividly burned into her mind, and she remembers how shaken she’d been. And it’s unsettling. Even with how much time has passed between the two events, she hadn’t thought so much about Graham at all hours of the day like she is now thinking of…

Everything goes back to Regina.

She scrubs her body, forcing herself to recall something else: Regina is a murderer. Regina killed Graham. She’s killed who knows how many people. Does she deserve Emma’s worry? She shouldn’t _care._ And yet...

Later, brushing her teeth, she stares at her reflection and touches the bags under her eyes. She looks paler than usual and utterly tired. Besides the customary mascara and eyeliner, she goes heavy on the concealer — this way she can avoid questions, especially from Mary Margaret.

She writes a note, ‘ **_Went for a walk. Be back before lunch. :)’_ **and leaves it on the breakfast bar, because she knows her roommate gets worried after Emma almost disappeared forever a few days ago. Still not one of her best ideas.

Her head’s swarming with conflicting thoughts long after she’s closed the front door behind her, a bottle of water in hand, all set for her run. Her hair in a ponytail, wearing a black waterproof running jacket to ward off this morning’s cold temperature and drizzling weather, she munches on a banana as she goes down the stairwell.

Main Street at 7:30am on a Saturday looks like the amusement park she’d broken into with Neal (and she’s really out of sorts if she’s thinking of _him)._ It looks abandoned and closed.

She walks past the pawnshop, and turns right.

Around two blocks later, she sees the infamous hiking trail, the one leading to the Toll Bridge. Why not? Way better than starting running and having to stop to talk to other people.

It’s great that the crime rate in Storybrooke is basically nonexistent: only going slightly up because of Kathryn’s disappearance. Therefore, unlike New York or Boston or Tallahassee, she can safely do a hiking trail by herself without looking over her shoulder at every corner. (Doesn’t mean she’s not constantly paying attention to her surroundings — anyone tries anything funny, she can punch them into oblivion. Or so she likes to think.)

Stretching her muscles first, Emma tries to find some peace from her inner turmoil in the trees and birds and even in the sound of bugs. She’d never quite understood the appeal, being a city girl, but there was a time she almost had her first camping trip, and the idea of being included in something had made her incredibly excited. The trip may not have happened, but the potential of the feeling had remained. Maybe one day Henry might want to have a camping trip with her.

She lets her legs do their work, her jacket’s hoodie protecting her from the light rain, and focuses on the path ahead, and solely that.

That lasts for about twenty minutes.

How long has it been since she went for a jog here in Storybrooke, she finds herself wondering, feeling the slight burn in her sides from the lack of constant exercise. February was a blur of awful happenings in sequence, and March so far has been so chaotic; she’d had to settle for a few rounds on the old treadmill in the Sheriff’s Station.

She spots the Toll Bridge and runs faster to it.

Just this month, she thinks while she starts crossing the bridge, there’d been the end of Kathryn’s investigation; Mary Margaret was finally home; Emma had rightfully accused Regina of framing Mary Margaret for murder and had threatened her with a custody battle; Emma had… taken Henry, and then—

God, she stops, panting, hands on her knees, and shakes her head. And _then_ , she’s thinking about Regina again.

Leaning her arms on the guard rail, Emma glances at the rocky little shore where they found an unconscious David all those months ago (her… father...), the water level way higher now than in… October. “Last year!” says Emma to the wind, incredulous. _What the hell._

It’s also where she found someone’s… heart last month. That she really thought was Kathryn’s because of an altered DNA test result.

_Regina is a fucking psycho._

Eventually, Emma pushes herself away from the rail and starts walking down the bridge to the other hiking trail on the right, one destination in mind.

***

Regina weeps, falling to the floor in a heap of limbs, and blocks her ears with her hands against the sound of her younger self in the mirror, imploring to the snickering voices to make it stop.

“Please stop,” Regina cries at the same time as the foolish, young Regina screams, “Mother! What have you done?”

It’s a cruel, cruel punishment, the worst memory the mirrors could possibly conjure. Relieving this heartbreak— and its subsequent regret: loving Daniel and tainting him with her damaged self. Letting him get pulled away to Mother. Saving Snow White from that runaway horse—

She sobs, the image of his heart being crushed to dust stuck behind her eyelids.

***

It comes in handy that Storybrooke General Hospital’s back door leads directly to the path in the woods. In no time she’s gotten there.

The clock on the wall on the third floor of the hospital tells her it’s 8:57am as she rounds the corner; unlike the other times where she’d kept her distance and only got close enough to call Henry, she enters Regina’s assigned room. Being Sheriff does get her immediate access to it, even if the visiting hours don’t start until 9:30am or something — she’s never bothered to check.

Emma imagines she doesn’t look her best now, sweaty and terribly tired and with hair tendrils escaping her messy ponytail, but there’s no space for overthinking now she’s here.

“I can’t understand you, Regina,” Emma starts, throwing herself on the visiting chair with a heavy sigh. Regina looks better today, less of a corpse and more like someone who’s just asleep. The stitches on her forehead and the swelling around them are the worst part. “I once told August that I’m the type of girl who _can’t_ not walk over, I _have_ to give you a piece of my mind. Probably why I’m here.” She shrugs. It’s true. She was going to keep her distance, she was. But she _had_ to come here.

Maybe it’s a bit selfish of her, since Regina can’t even respond.

“I’ve been thinking a lot, and I don’t know how Henry managed to reconcile the fact that...” Emma leans forward until her mouth is close to Regina’s ear, then says quietly, “You’ve killed people before. You had Kathryn kidnapped. I know that you killed Graham.” Moving back, she blinks back tears, her stomach in knots. “And I don’t know what to _do,”_ she admits (to herself, most of all). “I know I should be _happy_ about all this, I know I should _hate_ you for everything you’ve done, but I just—”

“Ah. She does like to screw us over!” she hears someone say from the shadows, immediately sending chills down her spine. It’s a voice she would much prefer to never hear again, followed by a low, mocking chuckle. “Quite the dilemma you’ve got there, huh?”

“Jefferson,” she spits out with venom, getting up from the chair in the next second, eyeing him as he steps out from the corner of the room. “What are you doing here?”

The bastard had just _vanished,_ and now he’s just… back?

“Well, I’ve been visiting our dear Regina since _day one,”_ he says casually, moving forward until the only thing separating them is the hospital bed. 

Emma swallows, mouth dry. She suddenly longs for the water bottle she left outside. “What?” she asks with difficulty, apprehensive. This guy is volatile.

“A pity, isn’t it?” He clicks his tongue, speaking calmly as though he hasn’t admitted to the creepiest stalkerish thing ever. “Still highly amusing, however. The apple intended for you, lodged in her throat instead.”

Emma crosses her arms tightly against her chest, not taking her eyes off of him or his movements. “Doesn’t explain why you’re here,” she says flatly. “Give me one good reason I shouldn’t kick you out right now.”

Jefferson gives her a smile, but it’s one that has her on edge (more than she already is). It’s threatening, it’s devious; it screams bad news. Emma hates him so much.

“I did what she asked, and now it’s like she did it on purpose, you know?” He shakes his head, motioning to the mayor’s very still body. “I want my daughter _back._ And she promised me that. I want to leave this— this hell!” he exclaims, gripping his own hair.

“Look, I think she has paid enough,” she snaps. “When Regina wakes up, you can talk to her. Until then, back off.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I can arrest you,” she shrugs. “Might make things harder for you in the long run.”

“You— you wouldn’t.”

***

_“Yes, I would. Don’t think I forgot everything you did.”_

Regina frowns, unsettled by the comment. Emma has met him before. When the hell did that happen? 

_“So don’t ever come back in here. Do we understand each other?”_

Why is Emma Swan protecting _her_ of all people? Why not just let Jefferson end things? Put an end to her misery— 

_No._

_Henry._

Nevertheless, she thinks, shaking her head, she doesn’t _deserve_ this protection, this… worry. Emma has just admitted she knows what Regina’s done, including to Graham, and yet—

_“Fine, fine, Savior, I’ll leave her alone. I don’t know why you of all people would be defending her.”_

“I don’t know either, Jefferson,” says Regina, unknowingly repeating Emma’s thoughts.

It’s such a preposterous notion.

Perhaps Emma’s protection comes from being the _Savior._ That’s what Emma does, that’s who she is. (There’s a part of her that doesn’t really believe that’s the reason. She shuts it down.)

Emma has protected her quite a few times already, Regina remembers. The memory that comes to the forefront is of the day from the fire. She’d been so certain that Emma was going to leave her to burn at the Town Hall, and then…

Regina doesn’t know what to think.

(But it feels good knowing that someone cares enough even if they’ve always fought each other.)

***

Emma stares at Regina until she can’t hear Jefferson’s steps anymore as he leaves the room. Inhaling a long breath through her nose and releasing it from her mouth, she turns away, decidedly keeping herself away from an uncomfortable truth she’s not ready to face.

***

####  **March 20th, 2012**

It’s been two weeks now, Henry realizes as he flops down onto the uncomfortable visitor chair.

Two weeks since Mom made a terrible mistake.

Every day, Emma picks him up from school and drives him to the hospital, lingering for a bit in the room, probably to make sure he’s okay. He knows Emma’s worried about him. Then she comes back at around 4:30pm so he can do some of his homework at the Sheriff’s Station before his therapy session and dinner.

“I thought we could read something else today,” he’s saying to Mom, fishing for one of his comics at random inside his backpack. There! “Uh…” He flips it on his hand so he can see its title. “Wolverine. I think it was one of the last ones you got for me, Mom.”

He reads out loud for her until he gets too thirsty to continue, and just before he steps outside to go get some water, he envelops her hand in his. Cold. 

“Mom, I’ll find a way to break this curse, I promise,” he tells her. “I know Mr. Gold wasn’t much help from what Emma says, but I’ll think of something.”

Frowning, he gently sets her hand down next to his favorite scarf. There are already two blankets on her, but it doesn’t seem to be enough. He vows to find Ms. Disla, the nurse, to get her help.

***

####  **March 21st, 2012**

“I’ll show you bad handwriting next time,” Emma grumbles, entering the sheriff car and nearly sealing the door shut.

Frank Griffin is the most annoying man to ever exist.

Emma had never personally interacted with the guy before he assumed office, but after the first meeting with him she just couldn’t get away fast enough from the Town Hall.

“Oh, weren’t you the one who tried to publicly shame Regina for the new playground?” he’d asked the first time they met, and oh boy, were they off to a great start as she confirmed with a grimace.

It did _not_ help matters that seeing this dude sitting behind what she’s always considered Regina’s desk made her hands tremble just slightly as she handed over the papers he needed.

It was strange, like she’d jumped straight into a very weird alternate reality with no way out.

Emma’d already been too emotional this morning, when Henry had suggested that he didn’t really like taking money to buy lunch. His mom would always pack his lunch, and that’s what he wanted. _I’m not your mom,_ was her immediate thought, but she refrained from saying it, a lump in her throat.

It’s _awful,_ but it’s the truth. She’s nowhere _near_ being his mom. Not yet. And she can’t really take Regina’s role, is what she’s realized.

And now she has to learn how to make his lunch and pack it for him.

She grips the steering wheel while she drives, letting out a sharp exhale. Before she knows what she’s doing, she’s parking at the hospital.

Jennifer Disla is slowly turning Regina’s body to the side with the help of another nurse Emma’s never seen before when Emma gets to the room.

Something tightens in her chest. The image is so… awfully vulnerable that she has the urge to turn around to give her some privacy.

Clearing her throat, Emma asks weakly, “What’s that for?”

Jennifer looks up. “Oh, Sheriff Swan, hello,” she smiles.

“Hi,” Emma replies with a smile that probably looks more like a grimace, crossing her arms against her chest.

“This is to avoid bedsores. We have to turn her body from side to side to expose her to different pressure points,” Jennifer answers.

“Oh… So,” Emma points with her thumb over her shoulder, “can you call me in when…”

“Absolutely.”

Stepping outside, the only thing Emma can ask herself is _What the hell am I doing?_

She runs her sweaty hands on her jeans, and resolutely avoids glancing at the room. She’s not sure she’ll ever be comfortable seeing Regina like that, as much as she’s placed Regina in her bad books as of late.

***

Regina hides her face between her knees. It’s become the most successful method of not being bombarded by her own twisted reflections, her own darkest memories and her own _regrets._

She still hears the jeers and whispers, quietly daring her to take a look and see everything she’s done. How much she’s failed. All of the despicable things she’s committed in the name of revenge.

The most recent regret: getting that poisoned apple in exchange for Daniel’s ring. Not only because of the sentimental value of it, but also because, as she’s reluctantly coming to realize, maybe the curse was not worth it to begin with.

Not worth clinging to, striving to save something gradually withering in her bare hands. Not worth giving up Henry to keep. Not worth all the lies and schemes in the world.

And who matters and will always matter is her son.

Regina says his name under her breath — _Henry Henry Henry —_ reminding herself for the thousandth time that she can never let any regret be stronger than what the curse gave her, despite everything else she did wrong.

How had she managed to forget that for so long?

 _“Hi,”_ Regina hears suddenly, pulled out of her own troubled mind. _“It’s… it’s Emma.”_

Then there’s silence.

And Regina does mean _silence._

No whispers, no voices, nothing. It’s quiet. If she had a pin, she’d hear it drop on the floor.

Regina raises her head slowly, and glances around. The mirrors only show her own reflection. (Still, Regina glances away. She looks pale. Unkempt. Bags under her eyes, even if she does not need any sleep here.)

 _“God, this is so weird,”_ Emma continues, and Regina gets up with a grunt, like she’d hear things better if she were moving about. It doesn’t make a difference, but she likes to pretend she’s able to contribute to the conversation.

Even if it _is_ Emma Swan. Again.

_“I don’t even know if you can hear me. Maybe I should just…”_

“Stay.” Regina says through clenched teeth. She throws her hands up. “It’s not like I have more pressing matters. Even if last time wasn’t really enjoyable.”

 _“Well, since I’m already here…”_ Emma huffs, and Regina snorts at her predictability. There’s a pause, where Regina pictures Emma finally caving in and sitting down. _“I was in a meeting with the new… with the temporary mayor—”_

Regina’s eyes widen. “What?!” she nearly screeches, and then grimaces, embarrassed by her own outburst.

_“—Again. He wants a meeting every week, and I’m this close to just telling him to fuck off— Sorry.”_

Her mind really _is_ scattered inside this god forsaken place — Regina had not considered what would happen with everything else that wasn’t strictly Henry related.

 _What have they done?_ she ponders. It’s not like she ever expected to need a substitute. Who’s the temporary mayor?

Everything had seemed so permanent. Like the curse would last forever. Like she’d always be mayor, always have Henry. Like _time_ was merely an overall nuisance she’d always be able to control. 

As Henry got older, she started to realize things were not that simple. Especially after he found out about his adoption and she was not capable of dealing with it (another regret, how wonderful).

After Emma Swan arrived in Storybrooke, a word began hovering over her head in a cloud that got heavier and bigger as her curse began to weaken: _Change._

It’s difficult to admit that she’d been dreading the tempest it inevitably caused. (And hadn’t acknowledged while stirring the apple sauce with tense shoulders and constant second-guessing.)

 _“You’re very annoying,”_ echoes in the dark room, and Regina rubs her temples, focusing on the conversation once more.

She scoffs, “You’re one to talk—”

 _“But at least you didn’t call me at least once a week for a meeting about... security and who knows what— making sure everything was up to_ your _standards, apparently? When you never even— You just wanted me to do my job, I guess. A pain in the ass, but not usually work-related. But yeah, the guy wants everything to be perfect for you. I didn’t know it was possible for someone to be_ that _loyally annoying. Like, Sidney was less annoying. Well... sometimes.”_

Regina is unable to control the way her lips curve up in amusement. Emma has never said so much to her, not this freely. Not without holding herself back or hiding behind an eyeroll or a retort. Regina had cut her off right from the start, she’s well-aware. (Perhaps a bit afraid of what it might result in if she let her guard down.)

“Who is it, Sheriff Swan?” she asks.

_“This dude, I swear. Frank Griffin… Ridiculous name. Did you make that one up?”_

Regina tilts her head. “Hmm. Perhaps his last name was a little on the nose.”

Griffins were known for guarding treasures in the Enchanted Forest. Hence Frank Griffin. Of course it’s him. Her treasurer back in their land, therefore the president of the council, someone she could trust to stay loyal to her. Of course he’s the one to assume the role of interim Mayor.

Such loyalty could make him insufferable, however; Regina has to smile after hearing Emma’s frustration.

_“God, you know what pisses me off?”_

Regina smirks. “Do tell, Miss Swan.”

 _“I sensed something was off that day,”_ she says, and Regina immediately knows to _which_ day she’s referring. Her amusement is short-lived, because she’s unable to refrain from listening. _“But I told myself I was just being paranoid. And then you_ were _lying. Cordial my ass. You didn’t even hesitate, did you? Even knowing I was leaving.”_

“I did!” she exclaims, frustrated anger rushing up from her chest, “I did hesitate, and that’s the worst part, Miss Swan—” Regina kicks one of the mirrors with a grunt, but, it doesn’t even budge “—because I shouldn’t have hesitated _at all!”_

***

Emma pauses, stares at the monitor. Nothing changes. She doesn’t know what she expected.

“What did you even think would happen? I eat the turnover. And then what?” Emma raises her hands in exasperation. “Henry is mad at you for doing it. That’s it. That’s what happens!”

Emma gets up, shaking some of her frustration from her limbs. Pivots on her heel, away from Regina, and runs a hand through her hair. “I’m sorry,” she says while she fiddles with the curtains. Eventually she draws them back a bit, checking outside. What a lovely view of a grey sky, old buildings and the town clock further ahead. It’s facing the other way, so she can’t even check the time.

“I’m not even sure why I’m here,” she tells Regina, letting go of the curtain. “And it doesn’t help that I get so… so angry whenever I think about it, or remember the things you’ve done.”

She’s compelled to check on Regina by herself, despite the frequency with which she sees her every day because of Henry’s visits and the increased security in the building. It should have been enough. Jefferson has stayed away, but she can’t quite shake the fear. She can’t quite ignore the pull to see everything’s okay with her own eyes.

The worst part is that she wants answers. She wants to know the whys and hows and she can’t stop thinking about it every day, can’t stop asking herself absurd stuff like ‘Would things be different if my approach had been different? If I had _helped_ Regina instead of going directly against her, all the time?’ or asking _Regina_ again: ‘How in the hell did you get like this?’ and getting an answer, understanding her better— Becoming closer, being her friend—

_Stop. Don’t go there, Emma. Don’t._

“I, um…” She crosses her arms and gulps. “I should get going.”

With one last look, she leaves for work.

***

They sit cross-legged facing each other on the bed, Emma’s quizzing him for his Social Studies test.

“The president is part of which branch?”

“The executive,” replies Henry immediately, then says, “Please tell me that’s the last one, Emma.”

She laughs. “Yep.” Emma throws the flash card over her head to the floor, and Henry giggles with her. “You got this,” she says, setting down the rest of the flash cards they’d also used. “I was only asking because I wouldn’t dare be responsible for bad grades.”

“Thanks,” he says with a smile.

“Okay, now to more important matters.” Emma claps her hands together. “The curse.”

Henry raises his eyebrows in surprise. “You want to discuss the curse?” 

“What, why is that so hard to believe?”

“Because Emma… _you_ didn’t believe until two weeks ago.”

Emma’s mouth opens and then closes. Okay, yeah, “You got me there.”

 _“And_ you stopped talking about it since… since you visited Mr. Gold,” he says as if he’s cracked the code, narrowing his eyes at her. “You never told me what really happened there.”

 _Oh, kid, it has nothing to do with Gold._ “Nothing! I mean, he just annoyed me as usual, told me about true love’s kiss, and I asked for help with August. That’s it.”

“Okay…” he answers, lying down on the bed. Emma follows suit with a sigh. She is _not_ ready to admit to him that she’s been visiting his mom every day _and_ has been trying to come to terms with the fact that Regina’s a murderer and was one of the reasons her childhood was fucked up—

“What do you want to know?” Henry asks, interrupting her derailing train of thought.

“Shouldn’t the curse have broken?”

“Why?”

“I believe now.” (Reluctantly.) “Isn’t that enough?”

Henry is quiet for a moment. Then, “I don’t know. Maybe we’re missing something?”

Emma frowns. “The book didn’t say anything?”

“We ripped off the last pages, remember?” She groans. Right. “But it just said something about a final battle… Mr. Gold really didn’t mention anything else?”

“No. It did seem like he was hiding something, but he’s weird, so you never know,” Emma says, moving back up into a sitting position. Henry copies her movement. “He did say he wants the curse to break, though.”

“What does he get from it?” Henry muses.

“That, kid,” Emma says, “is a great question.” Her stomach growls loudly, and Henry giggles. “But one we’re not answering right now. Dinner, come on. We can look more into it later.”

***

####  **March 22nd, 2012**

Regina watches as fire consumes the cottages, flames crackling and people screaming and fleeing, horses neighing loudly, frightened. And in between the horror and blood and destruction, a man holding a sword fights to protect his loved ones. He’s cut down like everyone else without a second thought. And _she_ stands there, reveling in all the pain and suffering wrought to anyone who dared interfere with her vengeance; lost in it, diving into the darkness until the surface was murky at best. The village burns to the ground, and she takes the responsibility with sickening pride.

The Evil Queen swivels on her feet, skirts cutting through the smoke and fire, and looks right into Regina’s eyes, and when Regina can’t bear to be confronted with that image anymore, the Queen’s deep-red lips stretch in a smile full of bloodlust.

 _“How fucked up is it that your story is in a book? A fairytale book?”_ Regina hears and flinches, her whole body tensing up. Her heart would be racing right now if she could feel it. Once she realizes it wasn’t the Evil Queen who said it, she exhales in relief. 

The image flickers in the mirror until she’s staring back at herself again and there are no screams or death to watch and listen to.

“Hello to you too, Miss Swan,” Regina grumbles to the vast emptiness ahead, turning away from her own reflection. She’s not quite sure why she pretends her hands aren’t trembling and her voice isn’t unsteady, chest heaving from another onslaught of regretful memories. But she tries.

She’s not weak.

 _“I read the book last night,”_ Emma continues. _“To be honest, it only says you were the villain in most of the stories.”_

“Yes, I was, thank you for stating the obvious.” Regina’s nostrils flare. _Puta._ “Why are you here, _again?_ Leave me be,” she says, stressing each word.

 _Stay,_ another part of herself whispers, and she resolutely tries to crush it.

 _“I lost my parents because of you. The Evil Queen—”_ Emma laughs; a sharp, strained sound. Regina winces, focuses on the torch, her source of light and movable permanence inside this hell. _“The thing is, even with all the drawings in that book I can’t even— The Evil Queen? Really?”_

Frowning, Regina paces back and forth, listening to Emma’s rant.

 _“And then— god, I can’t even look at Mary Margaret without thinking about… I’ve spent my whole life wondering why my parents gave me up. I imagined all sorts of things, all possible reasons why— This sounds like a bunch of_ crap!” Emma’s voice cracks, and this uncomfortable feeling settles like a heavy stone in Regina’s chest, and she rubs at it, at this foreign pain, loathing it so much she—

_“How could anyone do this to someone! This is so ridiculous!”_

“I can’t regret any of it, _Emma._ I _can’t!”_ Regina answers, anger coloring her tone. Oh, the urge to say this directly to her annoyingly attractive face right now, and not to the black void of _nothing._ “It got me my son, and he is _everything,”_ she chokes on the word, tears prickling her eyes. “Everything. So just go, if that’s all you have to say, because I _know._ I know I’ve inflicted misery to last over a lifetime.” She sobs, these ugly admissions pouring out of her.

Emma doesn’t say anything for a while, but Regina can pick up some sniffling sounds that indicate Emma’s possibly just as affected as she is. Who does Emma think she is, coming in here and slapping her with these harsh truths? Confronting her for her past misdeeds? And why does a part of Regina crave it? (More importantly: why is Emma still _here,_ why hasn’t she run far away, why didn’t she — Regina hates to even imagine it — take Henry?) Why, why, why.

Emma sighs. _“I don’t even want to admit it, but I can’t stop thinking about you—”_ Regina inhales sharply, her mind in disarray, those words eliciting confusion in their wake. _“I mean, um… Thinking about everything... that’s happened.”_ Emma coughs. _“And I_ hate— _I hate myself for it. For even thinking about it.”_

Regina’s stomach flips, and not unpleasantly this time. She holds herself in an attempt to keep in this warm sensation spreading through her body. It’s always so achingly cold in this place.

 _“Well,”_ Emma says, _“it’s easier than dealing with the family situation. Blaming you for everything is also easier. All my life I only knew one thing: that my parents sent me away. And now… I was right. My parents chose a kingdom instead of me. A fucking kingdom!”_

“They did it to protect you. From _me,”_ comes out of Regina’s mouth before she can think twice, and she shakes her head, astonished at herself. “I hate you, Emma Swan, for making me say this.”

But as the words leave her mouth, Regina realizes that’s wholly untrue — she actually does not. In no way does she hate Emma Swan.

***

Later on that morning, leaning back on her office chair and looking up to the ceiling, Emma lets out a frustrated sigh, and rubs her face with a hand. She’s been trying to focus on the extremely boring paperwork for the past hour or two, filling them out neatly and all that bullshit — she does _not_ want to hear anymore handwriting complaints from Frank, seriously.

But her mind is elsewhere. Namely, Regina Mills.

Why can’t Emma stop going there in the mornings? She’d kept her distance at first, she did! And then… as soon as she had the tiniest excuse she went there to talk (complain) about said excuse until the topic inevitably turned into more personal matters.

Is it fair to throw her grievances at Regina? She’s in a _coma._

 _But Jefferson could come back,_ Emma reminds herself, straightening up and letting go of the pen she’s holding. “Why is everything so complicated?” she mutters, getting up from the rolling chair.

While she thinks of the ways her life has turned into a complete mess, Emma grabs some darts from one of the empty desks outside her office and starts throwing them at the board, missing quite a few — she pierces at least three pamphlets attached to the bulletin board, including the ‘Bike Safety Fair’ Emma has to do next month because of Frank Griffin. 

Does she know how to ride a bike? Not really.

It’s not like Regina was much better, with her Fire Drill Friday at Town Hall or when she made Emma catalog all the traffic lights and crosswalks because they were doing a Traffic Safety Fair in January.

Fun stuff.

She chuckles, thinking that if Regina saw her right now she’d probably throw some words around involving taxes and _I see you take your work very seriously, Sheriff Swan_ with that annoying smirk and poise and maybe a blazer thrown over her shoulder, wearing one of those amazing pantsuits—

Emma’s next dart hits the wall with a loud thud and falls to the floor.

Slowly setting down the other darts, Emma pivots on her heel and goes back to her office.

Paperwork it is.

***

“Sheriff, if I could have a word with the both of you?” asks Dr. Whale just as Emma’s entered Mom’s room — hand on Henry’s shoulder. She’d probably been about to ask if she could take him back to the Sheriff’s Station with her.

Instead, they move away from Mom’s bed, and Henry’s not sure about Emma, but he’s nervous. So far, Dr. Whale has not told them anything significant, so this must be very important.

“We’ve been doing some tests by electroencephalography. While we cannot pinpoint the cause of Ms. Mills ailment,” he says with a frown, “there have been significant fluctuations in brain activity.”

Henry gasps, briefly glancing at his mom. “Does that mean—?”

“We’ve concluded that her brain activity spikes whenever you,” he explains, “or _Emma_ visit.”

_Wait._

“Emma?” Henry asks, surprise coloring his tone. Emma has visited Mom?

Emma rocks on her feet and doesn’t look at him when she asks Dr. Whale if that’s a good thing then, and Henry can’t understand why she didn’t tell him. He doesn’t know if he’s more curious and happy that she’s been helping or sad that she didn’t say anything.

Dr. Whale nods. “She’s responding well to it. So I would say keep doing it.”

“She can hear us?” Emma’s eyebrows raise, and she doesn’t look very happy with the idea.

“She’s processing sounds — we can’t know for sure how much she understands, but it’s definitely a good thing.”

“I knew it!” Henry exclaims, grinning. This is great! “I’ll keep visiting every day, I promise!”

Dr. Whale smiles. “See that you do. Both of you. It’s beneficial for her recovery.” Henry watches as Emma crosses her arms, and he’s positive she didn’t want him to know that she’s visiting Mom. But why? 

“Talk to you soon,” Dr. Whale says and leaves the room.

***

It’s awkward to explain to Henry why she didn’t tell him about her visits. Especially when Emma doesn’t know the reason herself. But she tells him she’s been visiting in the mornings, and keeping Regina informed about what’s going on. Henry tilts his head, confused by her secrecy.

“Adults are weird,” is all he has to say about it.

Emma barks a laugh. “You’re right, Henry,” she messes his hair affectionately and Henry pouts. “Adults _are_ weird.”

He seems happy enough that someone else is visiting Regina, and for the first time since everything went downhill he has a genuine smile on his face, eyes shining with barely concealed _hope._

As they climb the steps to Granny’s for milkshakes, Emma looks at him and smiles back. She’d missed his optimism and endless courage. His happy face.

Emma knows she’ll do anything to maintain that.

But then she remembers that if there’s brain activity, that means Regina is probably _hearing_ them, and the corner of her lips turn down.

Well… _shit._

***

Sometimes the voices and images fade; instead of peace, Regina finds her mind consumed with thoughts of her crimes, her regrets, her failures, her memories. Over and over, taking her apart. Henry and Emma’s visits are the only times she feels in control. When she’s able to direct her own musings.

She despises this place, and wouldn’t wish it upon anyone now that she’s seen what this cruel fate brings. It might be painful to admit it, but not even Snow White deserved this. This constant torment is taking its toll on her, she’s deeply aware.

What if no one ever manages to free her from this? It’s not like she has an alive true love to wake her up. What if she spends eternity stuck in limbo, never aging, never—

Regina hits the floor with a clenched fist, interrupting herself from even considering such a possibility, frustrated beyond measure.

She can’t be stuck here forever, she _can’t._

There’s so much she has to _do._

And redeeming herself for Henry’s sake is the most important. She’s going to do right by him. She’s putting him _first,_ like she always should have.

No matter the danger the curse breaking might put her in.

Henry needs to be free… and know that he’s loved.

That she loves him.

“Henry,” she says quietly, looking up at the endless void, “I may not know how to love very well, but I will do my best to be a better mother. If I get out of here I—” She shudders with a loud sob, unable to finish her sentence aloud. Holding her head in her hands, the sobs tearing out of her, Regina wraps her arms around herself, repeating one thought over and over again:

_I will do better, Henry._

***

####  **March 23rd, 2012**

It’s not like Emma visits Regina earlier than usual just to apologize for all the yelling and complaining she’s done so far. And oversharing.

Nope, not at all.

She’s not self-conscious about it.

And she definitely did _not_ lose some sleep over it.

No.

She walks into the room, and when her thighs are nearly touching the bed she immediately blurts: “Okay it was terrible that I was yelling at a coma patient. I’m sorry. If you’re really in there listening, I know that I’m probably not the only one going through stuff now. So I’m sorry. Uh, bye.”

That’s all she has to say about it.

She’s at the room’s threshold before she stops and looks around; sad white walls, wilting flowers (she makes a mental note to get some more this afternoon), wires and loud beeping machines, Regina’s small, unmoving body. Then there’s what she can’t see: Regina’s apparent consciousness, her mind drifting and trapped inside.

Lonely.

_Not having someone, that's the worst curse imaginable._

Emma turns away with tight shoulders and a pang in her chest.

***

“For God’s sake, the woman _apologized,”_ Regina scoffs, shaking her head in disbelief. Why? Emma did nothing wrong.

How is it that Emma Swan became such an important presence in her otherwise horrible existence that Regina finds herself _missing_ her when she leaves? An annoying pang in her chest every time, an ache to say something back, share her own thoughts, ask her _Won’t you stay?_

It’s unbelievable, almost. A month ago, she’d say _impossible,_ even.

And now… now she’s not so sure it’s really that impossible. Emma is… She treats Regina like an equal. She doesn’t fear Regina. And, despite the things Regina’s done, Emma still visits and still wants to find a solution to her predicament.

There’s a sense of _despair_ overcoming Regina’s emotions after Emma’s apology, because the idiot is now aware that Regina can hear what’s being said.

What does this mean for the daily visits? Regina knows Henry will keep visiting, but what about Emma? Regina paces around the wide circle of mirrors, resolutely staring at the ground, and lets out a frustrated grunt. Why does she even _care?_

 _Well, besides the fact that I can’t hear the voices whenever they’re around,_ Regina admits to herself, _Emma is…_

She stops, hugging her midriff, and lets a breath escape between her lips.

_...different._

Regina _wants_ to learn everything. Anything that Emma will share.

Will Emma continue sharing things?

(It’s almost the same intensity of yearning to see her son again, and that’s… terrifying.

She wants to say, “Let me in— Tell me— Who are you, Emma?”

And she wants to _listen.)_

Perhaps this was the wake up call Emma needed, Regina concludes, eyes finding her own younger ones in the mirror being tricked by Mother to believe the Sheriff of Nottingham was her soulmate. Lip curling in disgust, she wonders how desperate she’d been that she’d blindly trust her mother’s words. (Several times.)

Things would be much easier if that need for love and acceptance wasn’t still burning bright in her heart.

“You are _despicable,”_ says Regina to the voices (to herself?), who taunted her until she _looked back_ at the mirror. 

_Do you think she will visit? After everything? You are broken, Regina,_ the voice replies.

And Regina crosses her arms against her chest, a seed of fear cultivating itself in her stomach. “She has to.” Regina says tremulously, then shakes her head at the vulnerability in her voice. “Otherwise I’ll go insane.”

***

####  **April 3rd, 2012**

Despite her self-consciousness about Regina being able to hear her, Emma continues her routine visits, determinedly telling herself it’s strictly for Regina’s benefit rather than a desire to be close to her. As much as Emma would prefer to pretend otherwise, Regina’s on her mind just as much as Henry nowadays, and she’s not sure how she feels about that.

In the mornings, Emma’s alloted time to visit Regina before work. While Henry knows that Emma’s been visiting her as well, she hasn’t told anyone else.

Today, however, she notices Mary Margaret studies her silently, sipping her coffee as Emma makes scrambled eggs and toast for everyone. (It makes Emma uncomfortable, so she ignores it. A _talk_ might be on the horizon, though.) She’s getting the hang of this food thing. 

“Your lunch is there,” Emma tells Henry, motioning with the spatula in his lunchbox’s direction. “Best put it in your backpack before I have to rush it to the school again.”

Henry sighs, “It was _one_ time, Emma!”

She gives him a sceptical look. “Well, once is more than enough, don’t you think? My lunch, made with so much love, forgotten...” she trails off, sniffling as she turns off the stove.

“Wow. Your acting skills are out of this world, Emma,” Mary Margaret comments, moving to sit next to Henry at the breakfast bar. Emma chuckles as she transfers the food from the pan to the three dishes.

“What can I say? Natural talent,” she replies, setting the plates on the breakfast bar, proud of herself for having everything ready with time to spare before school _and_ visiting Regina. She turns around and grabs the plate with the buttered toasts, placing them on the counter as well. “There you go.” She pushes Henry and Mary Margaret’s dishes across the bar to them, then offers a fork to each.

“Thanks, Emma,” Henry smiles and digs in.

“Yes, thank you,” Mary Margaret concurs, scooping some scrambled eggs as Emma props up by her elbows on the counter and takes a big bite of her toast.

“‘rin ffuhm oranjuff,” she says with her mouth full, motioning with her fork to Henry.

“What?” he asks with a laugh.

Emma swallows, smiling. “I clearly said, ‘Drink some orange juice’. Healthy stuff and all that.”

“Okay, _Mom,”_ he mumbles and grabs the jug; Emma’s heart stops for a second, and she nearly chokes on her toast. “Are you dropping me off at the bus stop?”

“Yep,” Emma answers, eyebrows raised in disbelief. Mary Margaret not so subtly clears her throat, reminding her to stop staring at the kid like he’s sprouted another head.

“Can we get flowers today?” he asks next, like he hasn’t just said something life-changing.

Emma sighs in relief. “Sure thing,” she smiles softly.

***

 _She’s a strange one,_ Regina thinks, listening as Emma tells her about her newly acquired cooking skills. In spite of the hundreds of bad things Regina’s done, she’s still _here._

“Why are you here, Emma?” she asks again, like she did the last time, and the time before that.

It’s puzzling and quite difficult to accept. Why would Emma be here, without some ulterior motive? After everything? 

It was hard enough to understand how Henry could still love her, despite knowing _everything._

And now Emma Swan won’t leave her alone, and as annoying as she is… There’s peace. No voices, no memories. They leave her alone when Emma or Henry visit, making everything just a bit more bearable.

 _“So now I know how to make… um… arroz con gandules. That was Henry’s lunch today.”_ Emma says, the pronunciation missing its mark but the effort is _there,_ and some undefined emotion twinges in Regina’s heart. _“I bet your recipe is way better than the one I looked up online. But Henry didn’t know it.”_

Regina rolls her eyes and scoffs. “There’s no doubt there, Miss Swan. Mine is infinitely better than some—”

 _“He called me Mom today.”_ Emma says, and Regina chokes on the rest of her words as she processes the sentence.

It echoes in her head, her face turning ashen and her knees nearly giving out.

_“It felt… terrifying. He’s never said that to me, not directly. I wasn’t expecting it at all.”_

Clenching her jaw, Regina lies down on the floor, Fear’s claws dragging her down, and stares at the black ceiling. Of course, it was bound to happen now that Regina was — she clenches her eyes shut as the thought manifests itself — out of the way.

 _“And then I had to force myself to eat breakfast, because it tasted like dirt. Metaphorically!”_ Emma says quickly. _“I’d never give Henry dirt—”_

She opens her eyes. “Your point?” Regina snaps, hands flat on her belly, not entirely sure she does want to hear what else is going to come out of Emma’s mouth, body tensing in anticipation. Anger and betrayal swirl in her stomach, punishing her for ever daring to begin trusting—

_“—but yeah, I couldn’t taste anything, because… because I don’t want to take your place. That’s not what I want. Not anymore. I know it’s not what Henry wants either, but for a second my mind went blank, and then… the kid asked if we could get more flowers for you.”_

Regina turns on her side and hugs herself, a relieved sob breaking through.

_“Henry loves you so much. I don’t know why I ever thought I was doing the right thing.”_

Closing her eyes, Regina sniffles. “Damn you,” she mutters, but it lacks any bite.

_“And really, taking on this active role in his life has shown me a lot. Everything you’d do for him... When we met, you told me you endured his temper tantrums, changed his diapers, helped him when he was sick. You did so much more than that, Regina.”_

Regina should loathe Emma for reminding her of what she can’t have. What she can’t do and experience for the unforeseen future. Instead, she lets Emma’s words wash over her and assuage some of her fears.

Perhaps Emma didn’t come to gloat after all.

Suddenly, a warmth in her hand overpowers her senses, making her gasp. She raises it to her line of sight and envelops it with her other one in a mock semblance of joined hands. She mimics what Emma’s possibly doing right now: holding Regina’s hand in hers.

_“I promise: I will fix this. You told me I shouldn’t make promises I can’t keep to people, right? Well, I did keep it last time, so I promise, Regina, I’m gonna get you out of this.”_

The physical warmth disappears, and Regina feels its loss acutely.

Though... the words calm her troubled soul. Momentarily, the cold emptiness leaves her be, Regina warming from deep within.

For the first time, there’s a glimmer of hope shining through the darkness.

***

Emma eyes the calendar on the wall of her office that evening and crosses off April 3rd with an ache in her heart. It’s been four weeks now, she’s realized, and they’re nowhere near finding a solution to Regina’s curse. Either of the curses, actually.

And today she promised Regina she’ll fix this.

But how?

She glances at Henry, who sits at one of the desks doing research on his book.

The book had said that Regina became evil because she never got to be with her true love like Snow White did. And if she already had had her true love, then didn’t that mean there wasn’t a chance of breaking the curse with… _true love’s kiss?_

Emma really doesn’t want to think about true love’s kiss because, god, was it difficult to accept _that._

Hearing a loud thud, she’s taken from her musings, and turns her head again to see the book lying near the cells, and Henry’s back to her.

“Whoa, what did it ever do to you?” asks Emma, moving to her office’s threshold.

“It’s a stupid book,” he says loudly, wrapping his arms around himself.

She maneuvers around the desks and grabs the book from the floor. “Why?”

“I can’t find anything!” He crosses his arms, clearly frustrated. “There’s nothing there!”

Emma glances at it, and she kinda has to agree that the book doesn’t have anything useful. Not that she’ll tell him that.

She sets it aside, walking in his direction, and places a hand on his shoulder. He doesn’t look up.

Kneeling down until she can catch his gaze, Emma says, “Maybe you can’t find anything right now, but that doesn’t mean you haven’t found stuff.”

He sniffles, but drops his arms on his sides. Progress. “What did I find?”

She gets up and shrugs. “Uh, the curse? _You_ found it,” she answers, poking his forehead.

He gives a half-hearted chuckle. “Okay.”

“We’ll find the answer. Our best guess right now is to find your mom’s… true love…” She winces. “Right?”

His face falls. “I don’t think we’ll find her true love, Emma,” he says, bottom lip trembling. He looks hopeless. “I miss Mom. So much.”

She feels it too, that hopelessness. How are they going to find a solution? 

“I know, kid,” she says softly.

***

Emma jolts up, abruptly awake. She’s momentarily unsure what made her jump so much, but then her leg is kicked again.

 _Oh, it’s Henry,_ she thinks when he makes an awful noise of distress in his sleep, and it hurts, directly in her heart. It hurts to see him like this, hurts to hear his suffering.

Every week there seems to be a nightmare, all related to _that_ day or Regina in general. But today it looks like it’s a particularly bad one.

“Hey, hey,” she says, touching his shoulder and shaking it gently. “Kid, wake up. It’s a nightmare. Not real, Henry. Come on.”

He wakes with a gasp, looking around in confusion before his eyes find Emma.

He starts crying harder.

Emma tries to touch his arm, to offer some comfort, but he shrugs her off and continues sobbing, his sweaty hair stuck to his temples and his hands brushing at his wet cheeks angrily.

“Henry—”

 _“I want Mom!”_ he shouts in between his hiccups and tears. _“I want my mom now!”_

Emma’s face crumbles, and she’s gripped by her self-doubts and fears in an instant, words stuck in her throat.

 _I don’t know how to make it better, I don’t—_ “I’m sorry,” she whispers, reaching out again to hold his clammy hand in hers. He continues crying, but hugs her hand to his chest, and she shuffles forward until her other arm can go around his shoulders. “We’ll figure it out, Henry.”

“I want Mom,” he mumbles again, his sadness almost palpable as his tears soak her shirt.

Emma kisses his head. “I know, I know,” she says quietly.

She hears the stairs creaking, and looks over his head. Mary Margaret is holding a glass of water in her hands, and at Emma’s nod she moves forward and sets it on the nightstand, then mouths ‘Let’s talk later.’

Nodding again, Emma rocks Henry back and forth while her best friend returns to the first floor. They stay like this for a while, Emma trying to offer silent support.

“Here, have some water,” Emma says finally, reaching out to the nightstand while still holding Henry. The awkward position it puts her in makes him let out a wet laugh, and she smiles as she hands the glass to him. He sips the water, Emma brushing her fingers through his hair as she starts singing a lullaby she faintly remembers from one of the good foster families.

A few moments later, he gives the glass back to her, and she places it on the nightstand. “I didn’t know you could sing,” he comments in a small voice.

Emma pauses. She’s briefly reminded of why she doesn’t make a habit of singing in front of others… a girl from one of the group homes had cut her down and crushed her childhood dreams, making Emma give up on participating in the talent’s show. Not that Henry would ever… But she stays lighthearted for his sake, raising her eyebrows. “Me? Are you sure your ears are working properly?” she teases him, pulling at one of his ears playfully.

He laughs, tear-stains drying on his cheeks. “You’re so silly, Emma,” he says, pulling her closer.

“Come on, let’s get some sleep,” she replies softly, bundling him up under the covers.

***

Half an hour later Henry’s fallen asleep, leaving Emma exhausted yet too anxious to join him. In search of something to ease her nerves, Emma climbs downstairs to find Mary Margaret at the island, two cups of tea waiting. Somehow they end up at the table, Emma seated next to Mary Margaret, head propped up by her arm.

“Talk to me, Emma,” Mary Margaret says, a hint of exasperation in her tone, as well as genuine concern.

The thing is… she doesn’t really _want_ to talk. Not to Mary Margaret, at least.

Because she looks at her and is reminded of whom she’s supposed to be, and it’s the most awkward thing _ever_ and makes Emma want to drink until she passes out, but she won’t do that, because she’s responsible for a kid now. And Henry doesn’t even want her—

Mary Margaret touches Emma’s arm, and that pulls her from her thoughts. “I feel we barely talk these days.”

Emma closes her eyes briefly. “Yeah, um. My days have been busy.”

“And that’s okay, but you know that I’m here for you, right?” Mary Margaret squeezes her arm in reassurance. “I know it hasn’t been easy.”

Emma huffs a laugh. “God, you have no idea…”

Mary Margaret gives her a look. “You have to take care of yourself too, Emma. Okay?” 

Looking down, Emma nods, biting the inside of her cheek. “I’ll try,” she says quietly.

***

####  **April 4th, 2012**

After kissing Henry’s head and waving at him once he was inside the bus, Emma crosses the street from the closed off Public Library to Archie’s office on the other side. Pulling the building’s door open, she climbs the steps without thinking much. She’s not particularly fond of therapy offices, never was.

She’s given Henry his space in therapy, especially since Archie had pointed out that what she was doing was already more than enough. (Not that she believes that.)

But now, she’s way out of her depth. Mary Margaret was the one who suggested she visit Archie to see if there’s anything more immediate she could do. It’s not the first time Henry’s woken up from a nightmare, no, but this one had sent her heart racing and worry escalating to peak levels. And then he’d cried out for his _mom._

She feels restless from the lack of sleep, and her desperation to find a way to help Henry is what’s keeping her eyes open.

Now, knocking on Archie’s door, she exhales sharply through her nose, and shakes off the heaviness in her tired limbs, jumping up and down on the spot.

“Sheriff Swan,” Archie greets her politely, the beginnings of a confused frown in his features. “Good morning. What can I do for you?”

“There was… um… an incident. Last night.”

“Come right in.” He fully opens the door, and Pongo comes over to sniff at her jeans. Bending down, Emma feels herself relaxing a bit as she pets him. There must be some truth to therapy animals. Maybe that’s why he stays in the office, if patients like dogs, that is.

“Is this about Henry?” he asks, motioning for her to take a seat.

Emma throws herself on the armchair. Pongo walks over and sits down by her feet.

Archie looks at her expectantly, and she tells him. It comes pouring out of her, like a sudden summer rain shower when you don’t have your umbrella to hide from it.

“...and you said we had to figure out the best way for the two of us to be in his life. I was this close to leaving town, because that was probably the best for him, but then this happened, and I… I had to become his caregiver.” Emma shakes her head. “I don’t know what I was thinking when I thought I could be his parent right away.”

“It’s important you’ve acknowledged that, Emma,” he says with a nod.

Panic rises in Emma’s belly, and she has to fight the instinct to flee the office. He’s analyzing her and that was _not_ her idea when she came here.

She clears her throat, changing the subject. “I’m sure Henry’s said something, but he’s been having nightmares. I usually manage to help him, but last night… It was difficult. He didn’t want me. He wanted Regina. He needed _Regina.”_

“That was last night’s incident, I take it?”

Emma nods, fighting back a yawn. She’s so _tired._

“How did that make you feel?” he asks.

Lowering her head, she sees Pongo staring at her, and Emma reasons she can’t actually get up without having to move him, and he looks so comfortable. She’s always loved dogs—

“Emma?” prompts Archie, and Emma looks up, and exhales through her nervousness.

“It… it made me jealous for _a second_ and I _hated_ myself for it.”

Archie’s open expression doesn’t change, but Emma sets her eyes resolutely elsewhere, anywhere. The shutters and the specks of dust floating in the sunlight, the numerous paintings on the walls, the empty water glasses on the coffee table.

“Hate is a very strong word,” he comments, and she can feel he’s still staring at her. It’s deeply unsettling.

“Yeah, well.” Emma shrugs defensively. So _what?_ “I don’t know what I should do to help him, so it’s not fair that I feel this way. Obviously w— _he_ needs Regina back, but…” _Regina might not come back anytime soon. Regina might not come back at all—_

“Your feelings matter too, Emma—”

“Henry is what matters,” she replies quickly, scared by her own line of thought. She’s not ready for something like that to become reality. Never.

“He tells me you take him to visit Regina every day. And that you’ve also been visiting her to help with her recovery?”

“Yes, um,” Emma rubs the back of her neck, heat rising to her cheeks. “Yeah.”

“That’s good. You’ve been doing a great job so far, it’s helping him,” he says reassuringly. “And think of it this way: both of your lives have been turned upside down, more than they already had before. Which makes it more than okay if you don’t have all the answers.”

“But I need those answers— I’m here because of that. He misses Regina and I don’t know what to do to make it better.”

Archie hums. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something. Now seems to be the right time.”

Gripping her own knees, Emma braces herself.

“Have you considered staying at their house? Just for a while. It might help Henry if he feels more at ease. Nothing better than his own home for that.”

Emma blinks. Now _that’s_ something she wasn’t expecting.

***

It’s only logical that she should tell Regina.

What’s not logical is why her heart starts pounding when the hospital room comes into view. Horribly, for a fleeting moment there’s the thought that Regina won’t be able to refute the idea, so this is fine. But Emma is still determined to be honest and respectful of Regina. It really might not be what she wanted, but it’s what’s best for Henry, and Regina would be on board if it meant helping him.

Emma busies herself with the flower vase, anything to buy herself some time. She removes the withering roses and chrysanthemums, and starts placing the new bouquet carefully in the vase. “Hi… I hope you’re okay,” she says. _Wow,_ that was bad. Of course Regina’s not okay— With a wince, she continues, “Brought some of your favorite flowers today. Purple irises. And threw in some blue ones as well. I’ve been doing some research, and I know that the blue ones represent faith and hope or something. Henry said you know a lot about flowers?”

She turns her head in Regina’s direction, for a moment forgetting she can’t answer. Regina’s eyes remain closed. The monitor beeps in a normal rhythm; her brown skin so, so pale, cheeks sunken from the weight loss.

Emma shakes her head, letting go of the flower arrangement. She takes a seat, slouching terribly on the chair, and talks about anything that comes to mind, anything that means not talking about the main reason she’s here.

Absentmindedly, she grasps Regina’s cold hand in hers, just like she’d done yesterday.

“...and don’t worry, I have been watering your plants on the weekends. Cutting the grass, and all that— Also don’t worry,” Emma says quickly, “I know what I’m doing. Had a foster mom who was obsessed with her garden, and had us mow the lawn every week. Anyway, I keep paying the gardener twice a week too, so your huge garden and very green grass will stay green— You’re like the literal the neighbor’s grass is always greener.”

Chuckling at herself, Emma pauses, and sighs. It’s time to face the music.

“I had this very intense conversation with Archie this morning,” she says. “Henry’s okay now, but…”

***

_“...he’s been having nightmares.”_

Regina rubs at her chest, painfully reminded of what she’s caused, and places her warm hand on one of the unmovable mirrors.

 _“Archie suggested…”_ Emma continues, her voice quiet and hesitant, like she knows Regina won’t like the suggestion, _“we stay at the mansion?”_

“He…” Regina trails off as she leans her forehead against the cool reflective surface. Emma’s touch on her hand gives a sense of calm and reassurance.

_“Please don't get mad. You can kick my ass when you wake up? I’m just...”_

Regina snorts, turning her body until her back is against the mirror, fiddling with her fingers. “Emma, as much as I don’t particularly enjoy the thought of—”

_“I’m running out of options. Henry… He’s— He’s sad, as much as he tries to hide it now.”_

Swallowing hard, Regina squeezes her eyes shut against the wave of concern that the words bring. “As much as I don’t enjoy the thought of someone inside my home,” she reiterates, “you’re…”

 _“I think this might be good for us— for him. Being close to you._ _It’s just until…”_ Emma pauses, lets out a sigh. _“Until we find a way to get you out of this. Okay? I hope that’s okay.”_

Maybe it _will_ be okay, Regina realizes suddenly, and exhales away most of her anxiety. Opening her eyes, she says, “You’re the person I trust to take care of my son, Emma.”

It comes out of her mouth easily, like it was meant to be, like there was no fight to be had, just a natural progression that culminates in this word: _trust._ There’s no gripping sense of making the wrong choice, even though Regina knows she should be scared of the implications.

She’s done concealing the truth, however. Even from herself.

_“God, why aren’t you here...”_

Emma says it very quietly, perhaps not even intended for her ears, and her quavering voice tugs at Regina’s heartstrings. Despite the pointlessness of it, she brings her warm hand against her clenching chest, trying to get closer to Emma somehow. The longing is nearly overwhelming.

 _“Anyway, I'm so glad this town is weird,”_ Emma says, throwing in some non sequitur yet again. What she’d find highly annoying in others is almost endearing in Emma. _“Otherwise I doubt I'd be able to move in no questions asked."_

“You might still receive an earful from the _lovely_ Karen Ginger.” Regina rolls her eyes, and feels the corner of her lips curve upwards despite herself. “I would have placed her near the forest and not on Mifflin Street if I knew just how much of a nuisance that woman can be.”

 _“I bet the neighbors will annoy me soon enough— Wait. Isn’t Miss Ginger like... at the end of the street?”_ Emma groans to herself. _“Shit. I might rethink this.”_

And Regina can’t help the guffaw she lets out, hands on her stomach, and it feels so good to laugh for a change.

***

####  **April 7th, 2012**

On Saturday, Emma parks the car in the mansion’s driveway, already feeling _weird_ about this whole thing. She’s never done this before. Her bug doesn’t even look right next to these fancy garden topiary walls and beautifully painted freaking _mansion._

But Henry’s brimming with barely concealed excitement.

Honestly, he’s been excited since she proposed the idea to him.

Mary Margaret was a bit tearful, but Emma was admittedly relieved to have some space away from her, considering everything.

They waited until the weekend to make the… move, if it could be called that. Most of Henry’s clothes were in a backpack she made for him after it became clear things wouldn’t be changing anytime soon so that’s what he’s bringing back.

Emma hadn’t really unpacked her duffel bag since the day she almost left Storybrooke.

“Ready?” she asks, and at Henry’s earnest nod they get out of the car, carrying their bags.

It’s unsettling to open the door with Henry in tow again. The last time they were here together… Emma hates to think of that night, still so clear in her mind, and can’t imagine what he’s going through. Discovering Regina’s nearly lifeless body was an experience she didn’t care for.

Emma’s been here alone a few times in the past couple of weeks, mostly on Saturday mornings, ironically enough. She’s emptied the fridge, she’s swept the downstairs’ floors, mowed the grass, watered the beautiful flowers in the backyard.

Yesterday she even dropped some groceries in there.

But never with Henry.

Besides, he never brought up his desire to come back to his home. Emma should have considered it before now, should have—

“Thanks, Emma,” Henry says softly, standing in the foyer and glancing around, the biggest smile on his face. Emma sags in relief.

In the end, it only matters that she’s doing the right thing. Hopefully.

“Come on—” he exclaims, letting go of his backpack in the middle of the foyer, and starts running up the stairs “—let me show you upstairs!”

“Hey, kid, no running!” she says automatically, and feels herself start smiling. (Regina would be proud, right?)

“Okay, sorry!” is his muffled reply already from upstairs, and Emma snorts, setting down her duffel bag next to his backpack.

He shows her his room. “Look, I have a record player!” he says, and then _Freedom ‘90_ starts playing.

“Hey, I love this song!” Emma says, and grabs a small robot from his desk and starts pretending she’s singing with it.

Henry wheezes, holding his belly, but then starts singing loudly with her.

***

Later, they both lie across the bed, panting from all the dancing, and feeling _content._

It’s been so long since Henry had so much fun. He’d always had the best time listening to Beethoven or George Michael or any other vinyls with his Mom and doing silly dances around his room.

Eventually, Emma straightens up and looks around. “I count at least 15 different clocks in here. You collect them?”

Henry nods, still lying down. “To keep Captain Hook away,” he says seriously.

 _“Waaaait,_ he’s real too?” Emma asks him, making a weird face. “Is he in Storybrooke?”

“I don’t think so,” he shrugs. “Better not risk it.”

“You’re right, smarty pants,” she replies, poking his cheek for a second before getting up. Henry grapples for his pillow and throws it at Emma, who doesn’t even flinch. “Seriously?”

Henry sticks out his tongue at her, and Emma returns the gesture.

“Okay, I’m gonna show you the guest bedroom, and then we could…” he pauses, fidgeting with his fingers and avoiding Emma’s eyes.

“Hm? What is it, kid?”

He lifts his head and says hesitantly, “Is it okay? If we visit Mom?”

Emma gives him a soft smile. “Yeah, kid, anything you want.”

Henry gets up and gives her a tight hug.

***

After visiting Mom, Mom— Wait, that’s confusing. His _other_ mom, Emma, lets them eat burgers and fries with large milkshakes at Granny’s.

Henry’s called Emma ‘Mom’ before, and he’s not sure Emma was ready yet, so he didn’t do it again (only inside his head). But now... he gets confused when he’s talking about both of his moms at the same time. (And how cool is it that he can say he has _two_ moms?)

Well, he’ll have to find another way of saying Mom to refer to Emma.

Slurping his milkshake, he stares at her with a smile. He’s happy today. They aren’t exactly close to finding a way to break both curses, but at least he’s back at 108 Mifflin Street.

Henry hadn’t realized how much he missed it. His grandma’s loft was cool and spacious enough, but it wasn’t… _home._

“What are you thinking about?” Emma says in between burger bites, and Henry stops drinking and grabs a fry, munching on it as he shrugs. “Well, I hope you know that this lunch shouldn’t be mentioned to Regina.”

Henry smiles at her playful tone, and says, trying his best not to laugh, “No promises.”

“You’re _clearly_ your mother’s son. So cunning and evil,” she says and sniffles.

The word causes a mix of emotions in him for a moment. _Evil._ Not long ago that word would have caused his chest to tighten, his mom replaced by a villain known as the Evil Queen. Now he’s realised that, yes, she might be that character, but she’s also his Mom. More than just an archetype.

(Maybe he has to show that to her, too.)

His smile grows. “Yep.” He nods for good measure, and Emma shakes her head, chuckling.

***

Emma suggests they walk around Storybrooke for a bit to stretch their legs. Honestly, it’s because Henry won’t stop talking a mile a minute, yammering about anything and everything, and it’s making her a bit dizzy as she tries to keep up. She doesn’t mind his chatter, but the excess of energy from all the sugar… Not fun. A mistake on her part, but it’s fine. At least she didn’t give it to him close to his bedtime.

Going up Main Street, Emma answers his question about the best places she’s visited, although how they got to that question she’s not sure. 

“You’ve seen a bit of Boston, right? Well, Boston was nice...”

They continue walking and chatting until they reach the docks. Emma growing uncomfortable when she recalls the last time she’d been here, almost... two months ago now? A few days before they found Kathryn. 

August had given her the clue that got her to the shovel piece at the Troll Bridge — and to the realization that Regina really _was_ behind the frame job. Now August lies alone as a wooden man in a random apartment... until they break the curse.

 _How do I break the curse, August?_ she wonders, sitting down at the bench with a dejected sigh. 

“It’s been a while since I last came here,” Henry comments, swinging his legs back and forth.

Emma turns her head to him, Henry staring off into the distance, reminiscing about things that likely have nothing to do with clues and criminal cases. “Oh? When was it?”

“I don’t remember exactly… I think I was 7?” he says, a crestfallen look on his face. “But I used to come here all the time with Mom.”

They stay silent, accompanied by the sound of seagulls and waves as they watch the boats and the fishermen.

“I’d feed the swans.” Henry leans his head on her arm, and she places it around his shoulder. 

“So, you’d feed my friends?” she teases, squeezing him lightly.

He laughs. “Yeah.” 

“What else would you do?”

“Hmm… we’d get ice cream afterwards at Any Given Sundae.”

Emma smiles. “What flavor?”

“Rocky road…?” He raises his head to give her a confused look. “You know this already.”

Emma clears her throat, kinda flustered. “I was wondering about your mom’s.”

“Oh.” Henry says, his expression changing as he eyes her now. A speculative glance, maybe. That’s… not good, though Emma has no idea why he’s looking at her like that to begin with. "Well, she has four she really likes." He starts counting off on his fingers. "Chocolate hazelnut, coffee, matcha, and..."

He doesn’t finish his sentence, and Emma’s left hanging.

“And?” she repeats, now curious as hell, especially when Henry starts giggling.

“I found Mom’s pint of ice cream in the freezer once. She said she got the wrong flavor, but I _know_ she loves it.”

“What is it, kid?” Emma whines, her body fully turned to him. “Tell me, I’m dying to know.”

His tiny frame still shaking with mirth, he whispers loudly, _“Chunky monkey,”_ like he’s telling her this huge secret, and bursts into peals of laughter again.

Emma snorts. “No… You’re joking.”

“It’s true, Emma!”

She shakes her head, a huge smile on her face. This is priceless. “Oh my god, I’m never letting her live this down.”

Henry sobers up, his smile dropping. “Not in a bad way, right?”

“No, no—”

“It’s just… I don’t want you to fight anymore,” he says, looking sad again, and it’s the last thing she wants.

Emma immediately rises from the bench, then kneels in front of him. “Hey.” Henry looks at her with dull eyes. “We won’t,” she promises, and means it. She doesn’t want to fight Regina anymore.

(She wants to do the very opposite.)

She meets his gaze head on until he nods with a hopeful smile. “Okay.”

“Good.” Patting his knee, she straightens up and holds out her hand to help him up. He doesn’t let it go once they’re both standing.

“I want to come here with Mom again. And—” he pauses. Before Emma can ask him if something’s wrong, he glances up at her and finishes: “And... with you too, Ma.”

Emma’s heart beats faster, a sob catching in her throat. It’s kinda silly to be so emotional about something so small, but she is. She can only nod, squeezing his hand in reassurance that _it’s okay._

It’s more than okay. She’ll gladly be his Ma, she muses with a trembling smile on her face and relief in her chest — she’s not taking Regina’s place. She’s being granted a different space in his life.

“Now we eat ice cream,” he finishes, pulling her along.

“Hell no, kid, you’ve just had a huge milkshake—!”

***

That night, Emma twists and turns on the bed, unused to such a comfortable, expensive mattress. She feels like an intruder. Like she’s not supposed to be here, certainly not _sleeping_ under this roof.

Henry seems happier, though. Livelier. It was palpable when they both visited Regina together this morning. He wouldn’t stop talking about it, and how he was going to show Emma all the secrets of the house. And then there was the whole walk around Storybrooke later.

Maybe that’s enough: ensuring Henry’s alright. Her feelings are secondary in this equation — her feelings have always been secondary in any equation, really. Despite what Archie had suggested the other day.

Being at the mansion reinforces the fact that Regina’s not present in their lives— in Henry’s life.

It’s not _fair._

But Emma will get used to it. She always does.

***

####  **April 8th, 2012**

Henry rubs his eyes with a yawn, a bit disoriented at first.

Then he remembers — he’s home! It’s not perfect, but it’s _something._

Smiling, he kicks back his covers and glances at his nightstand. 9:18am, his clock tells him.

He takes a moment to look around at all his favorite fairytale drawings, his clock collection, his toys, his games and… He frowns, eyes landing on his desk. A photo frame is facing down.

 _Oh,_ he thinks with a pang in his chest, and immediately shuffles out of bed, bare feet touching the cold hardwood floor. He lifts the frame slowly, and reverently places it back on his desk. It’s a picture of him and his Mom taken last year at Granny’s, a few months before he found the adoption papers. Mom is hugging him, and they’re smiling. He brushes his thumb on the glass.

_You don’t know you miss something until you don’t have it anymore._

“I’m sorry Mom,” he says aloud. “Things will be different now, I _promise.”_

***

“Oh, ‘morning, kid,” Emma says as she spots him standing in the doorway, already ready for the day: a white shirt with a grey sweater on top and dark jeans. Today’s chilly, so she’s glad he’s dressed accordingly. 

“Good morning,” he chirps back and walks to the fridge, opening it. (Emma will never get over the fact that the fridge doesn’t look like a fridge — it took her a few seconds to find it the first time she was here. It looks more like a fancy cupboard or something. Honestly, only Regina.)

She looks back at the pancake she’s supposed to be flipping. “Someone’s looking handsome today,” she comments lightly, sticking her tongue out in concentration to get another perfect flip—

“And you’re wearing Mom’s shirt,” he says back, and Emma nearly drops the pancake to the floor from the way her arm jolts awkwardly in surprise, saving it just in time.

She turns off the stove, just in case. That’s enough pancakes for today.

The urge to facepalm herself is strong, because she really thought Henry wouldn’t notice.

“Uh… Well, I-I saw it—”

Henry chuckles at her expense. Seriously, this kid sometimes… “It’s okay, I like it,” he says, grinning as he grabs maple syrup and milk, placings both on the island counter, next to the other breakfast items. “You miss her too.”

She stares at him for a second. Henry just moves around the kitchen like he hasn’t said something out of the ordinary, opening the cupboard and choosing plates for them. 

It’s true, isn’t it though? Emma misses her. Must be why when her hand found the shirt inside her duffel bag today, she chuckled like it was a joke only Regina would understand. _(Enjoy my shirt, because that’s all you’re getting.)_

Swallowing hard, she grabs the plate of stacked pancakes, but she isn’t really sure where they’ll be eating. “Where should I take this?”

Henry, now holding the jam, points behind him with his thumb, to a room opposite the hallway leading to the foyer, where she can see part of a circular table. “There.”

Emma frowns. “Isn’t that the dining room?”

“Nope,” he replies, turning in its direction, and Emma just follows him, slightly overwhelmed.

She puts down the pancakes on the table, then glances around. “Wait, so this room leads outside…” she trails off, mouth open as she contemplates the door on the right and its steps. And to the left, she can see the dining room now.

“Mhmm! To the garage, basement or the garden.” Henry goes back to the kitchen. “We don’t use that door often.”

Emma walks around to the large window behind the table, pulling back the curtains to see the backyard in all its glory, still trying to make sense of all of this. “You gotta show me around the house today, kid,” she proclaims. _I wanna know everything about the place you grew up at._

***

 _God, this house is huge,_ is all Emma can think as they go from one corner to the other. She’d thought the fact that there’s a whole _library_ was impressive, but once in the basement she found something else far more suited to her interests. “You basically have a theater down there, what the hell! I still can’t believe it,” Emma says as they climb the stairs to the attic at the end of the second floor hallway. “And a huge pool table,” she adds, incredulous.

“You’ve said that before,” he says, his tone both exasperated and amused. “But yeah, Mom plays really well. Do you play?”

Huh. That’s something she’d love to see. “Actually, yeah. Worked at a bar for a few months,” she says absentmindedly, appraising the third floor.

Her conclusion is that the attic is basically an apartment. Someone could easily live in here, and Emma’s amazed as she touches the kitchen counter, but crinkles her nose from the way her palm gathers up dust.

“You two can play together!” he says excitedly, motioning for her to follow him from the left of the kitchen.

“Uh, yeah...” She doubts Regina would ever— They’re not friends. They’re… What are they? Sure, Regina’s listening, but it’s very possible she _hates_ Emma’s guts for everything. That puts a damper on Emma’s mood so fast she almost doesn’t pay attention as Henry explains what each room has.

“So here’s another bedroom” — he points to a closed door — “then the bathroom right next to it, and to the right of where we were before there’s an old TV and sofa.” He pauses in front of the last door in the hallway. “And here,” he finishes, opening the door, “is a closet full of old board games, holiday decorations, clothes and most of my baby stuff that Mom just couldn’t give away.”

Emma eyes him for a second, leaning a hand on the wall, and it hits her hard that this is Henry’s _childhood._ _Henry’s baby stuff._ “I… Can I see it?” she asks, voice small, not daring to take another step forward, excitement and trepidation battling inside her.

“Yeah.” He smiles. “Can you help me with the light?”

Emma enters the small room and exhales a long breath. She pulls the cord on the ceiling switch, and the room is bathed in a soft, warm light. There are labeled boxes of all kinds neatly organized in the space, and Emma’s eyes catch a few of them right away: **_NEWBORN CLOTHES; 0-3 MONTHS CLOTHES; PHOTO ALBUMS 2001; PHOTO ALBUMS 2002; RECORDINGS 2003._ **

There’s a lump in her throat as she glances at everything. It’s too much to take in at once.

“You… wanna look at it?” asks Henry when Emma doesn’t move.

Emma nods.

***

They end up removing the sheet protecting the attic’s sofa and the one on the old TV that has the VCR. Emma’s opened the window in the small living room to let some cool air in, but Henry’s sneezed at least five times already because of the dust.

Now she presses play on the VHS tape entitled **SUMMER 2005** eagerly, since that was one Henry personally recommended.

There’s a few seconds of camera fumbling where they can only see grass, and then it pans out to a waterslide in their backyard. As soon as Emma’s eyes land upon the tiny chubby Henry with the rounded cheeks wearing blue swimming trunks, his hair hidden under a small hat, she lets out an ‘Aww’ sound, her heart clenching in a mixture of love and sweet melancholy.

 _“I’m recording, Henry!”_ comes Regina’s voice from behind the camera, and Emma and Henry both gasp at the same time — they weren’t really _prepared_ to hear Regina after so long. Her husky, beautiful voice sends shivers down Emma’s spine.

 _“Hi!”_ Baby Henry smiles with barely concealed excitement, sitting cross-legged and waving awkwardly with his tiny fingers. _“I’m gonna down the… the...”_

Regina chuckles heartily. _“The waterslide,”_ she whispers to him, and Emma grins, eyes full of tears.

Henry nods like he said that the first time. _“Yeah. Water.”_ He shuffles until he’s on his belly.

 _“Woo!”_ cheers Regina while Henry goes down the waterslide with a squeal of laughter. _“Mi campeón!”_

“How old were you here?” Emma asks, briefly glancing at the Henry beside her. “You’re so adorable—” Her voice breaks on the last word, and tears escape her eyes unbidden.

“I was… almost four I think,” Henry replies quietly, suddenly moving forward and hugging Emma tight as they keep watching.

Baby Henry gets up from the waterslide, dripping water as he makes his way to Regina. _“I did it, Mommy! Did it!”_

 _“You did!”_ Regina’s voice is soft and light while he grins toothly, then he moves out of frame as he hugs Regina. Eventually she gets on her knees, shifting the camera to show both of them. _“Did you like it?”_

Emma’s unable to breathe for a few seconds, overcome with too many emotions to properly put a name to them. Because this… all of these memories… they are more than she ever hoped for when she gave Henry away for his best chance in life. And seeing Regina like this, healthy and well, with the brightest smile on her face, carefree and full of love for her son, it does things to Emma’s heart. She’s never seen this version of her before.

(It doesn’t help that she’s wearing a _swimsuit.)_

 _God, I do miss you, Regina,_ Emma realizes, and squeezes Henry comfortingly as he shakes noticeably in her arms. 

_“Sí!”_ they hear baby Henry answer, planting a wet kiss on Regina’s cheek. _“Te amo mucho mucho mucho!”_

 _“Te amo mucho mucho mucho más!"_ Regina says back, eyes sparkling.

The recording comes to an end with their smiling faces, and Emma brushes away her tears, chuckling wetly as she says, “Wow, kid… Thank you for this. You were the cutest baby ever.”

He sniffles, but nods. “I know,” he mumbles.

“Yeah.” Emma says, melancholy coloring her tone. “We’ll get her back,” she promises as she caresses his head. The same promise she made to Regina. A promise she’ll do anything to keep. “We will.”

“We will,” Henry echoes.

***

####  **April 9th, 2012**

_“Jesus, Regina. I spent the whole night awake looking at so many photo albums.”_

Regina closes her eyes with a tired smile, and just lets Emma’s voice wash over her. It was a tough day (night?) that left her unable to _think_ as too many memories fought for a piece of her.

_“I’m sorry if… if I shouldn’t have? Henry said I could. I know he mentioned it yesterday, but we watched so many adorable videos after that one. And then I just...”_

“It’s alright, dear.”

 _“I couldn’t stop flipping page after page, and god, Regina… Your love shines through in every picture, every captured moment. Have I ever said thank you? For everything you’ve done for him? I couldn’t have asked for a better—”_ her voice cracks _“—better parent for him, Regina. Thank you so much.”_

_Is it possible for your heart to break and mend itself at the same time?_

Regina wonders.

***

####  **April 11th, 2012**

_“I’m gonna commit murder.”_

Regina raises an eyebrow. What a nice greeting. “Well, that’s new.”

 _“Three nights, Regina,”_ Emma continues. Regina can almost _see_ the frustration in her voice. _“Three nights in a row now.”_

“Oh.” Regina smirks. “Your Karen Ginger problem. I did warn you—”

 _“She_ still _hasn’t stopped calling at_ three in the morning, and—”

“No burglars as of yet, I assume?”

 _“—it’s freaking squirrels! Not_ burglars!” Emma spits out the word like it personally offends her. It’s highly amusing. _“Why won’t she just accept it and move on? It’s bad enough I have to save her stupid cat every week from Pongo.”_

“Well, dear, I did warn you,” Regina reiterates, chuckling for a moment, but then she stops, her mood souring. She didn’t warn Emma about anything.

She wasn’t _there._

***

####  **April 12th, 2012**

Henry’s not really sure when it happened. When it _clicked._

But somewhere between ice cream flavors and photo albums, he realized something very important.

He wants his moms living together.

He thinks his moms should _be_ together.

And now he doesn’t really know what to do with that information...

Mom always said there were different types of love out there, and that there’s nothing wrong with it. Besides, Melissa has two moms, so it can happen, right? 

That’s not the issue.

The issue is… not only is Mom in a coma, he doesn’t know if they like each other. 

And, and… What about true love? Mom has lost her true love already, if the book is right in that aspect. (Emma’s told him to take the book with a grain of salt, because Regina’s story might not be completely reflected there. The book tells the story of the… heroes.)

“Emma,” Henry calls, lifting his eyes from his math homework he was supposed to be doing. Emma looks away from the computer and gives him her full attention. “Do you think a person can have more than one true love?”

“Well," she says, tilting her head, "my knowledge comes from fantasy books, so I don’t think it helps.”

Henry huffs. “We know the _book_ also doesn’t help.”

Emma leans back in her chair, and takes a bite of her bear claw before saying, “But really, I don’t see why not. People change. So a person’s true love at one point in their life… might not be their true love later because of that. Does it make sense?”

“Oh...” A seed of hope plants itself in Henry’s chest. He nods excitedly. “Yeah, I think it does! But how would you know you love someone like that?”

Emma frowns, setting down her dessert. “What’s this about?”

Henry shrugs his shoulders. “Just wondering if I could find another true love for Mom.” _(It’s you, Ma.)_

“Hmm. Well, I-I wouldn’t know how that feels.” Emma says, sounding sincere and sad at the same time. She shakes her head, focusing on the computer once more. Unfortunately that’s the end of the subject.

***

####  **April 15th, 2012**

“Okay, so we’re supposed to… add the tomato sauce evenly? Is that it?” Emma asks him, still reading the recipe. “This thing better taste good; can’t believe I made tomato sauce from scratch.”

Henry just laughs, enjoying her frustrated determination. Emma is so funny in the kitchen, especially wearing Mom’s apron that says ‘Best cook in the world’. “Yes, _evenly,”_ he says, then gathers some on his finger and touches Emma’s cheek.

Emma gives him a scandalized look. “You did not.”

“I did,” Henry singsongs.

“Oh, game on, Henry,” Emma says, grabbing him by the waist and lifting him over her shoulder in one fast movement that has him shrieking in surprise and laughter. She carries him until they’re standing in the middle of the foyer, then stops. “Wait. I have no idea where I’m taking you.” Setting him down, he doubles over in laughter.

It’s the best sound in the world.

They almost forget to finish the pizza, chasing each other around the house.

***

####  **April 16th, 2012**

_“...It was Henry’s idea. Don’t be mad at me when you wake up. Maybe you can do a… can you cause amnesia with magic?”_ Emma asks, and Regina can’t quite understand how she can joke so easily about this. _“Yeah. I’ll forget your lasagna recipe.”_

“Well, if you’re offering.” (Not that she’d ever do it.)

_“I just couldn’t say no to his puppy face. How do you do it? He can be so persuasive!”_

Regina smiles despite the ache in her heart: she misses him terribly, a pain so strong it has her weak in her knees, and not just metaphorically. There’s also the debilitating lack of strength that might be related to the curse. It’s been happening more often lately. Is the curse weakening her? She doesn’t even want to ask that question, for to consider its answer…

How long can her body survive without significant amounts of magic out there? It’s a miracle it’s survived this long. 

The image of her decaying apple tree at Town Hall comes to mind. Seeing the rotten apples had been the last straw, she remembers. The motivation that prompted her to procure the poisoned apple from the other land.

That and the awful nightmare where Henry wanted to see her dead and Emma beheaded her—

Regina’s heart beats faster and she presses her hands to her temples. Emma wouldn’t do that, she wouldn’t. Henry wouldn’t leave her. Not now, not after this, not after knowing the whole truth and still staying—

Emma touches her hand and sighs, as if sensing Regina’s unease — which is beyond ridiculous, because that would be _impossible._ _“It tasted okay. But I bet your lasagna is way better,”_ she says softly, and Regina’s breath hitches. _“So hold on tight because you gotta come back.”_

Bringing her warm hand to her own cheek, Regina closes her eyes, lips downturned. “Just to make you lasagna?” she asks, not really expecting an answer.

 _“And not just because of the lasagna,”_ Emma whispers.

***

####  **April 20th, 2012**

“Hi, Emma,” says Mary Margaret with a smile, opening the door wider. “Come on in.”

“Whoa, it feels _so_ weird to be here as a guest,” Emma answers, closing the door behind her.

“I know! It _is_ weird.”

Mary Margaret texted her yesterday inviting her over to lunch — it’s been a while they’ve last talked for more than 10 minutes on the street since Emma and Henry moved. The loft still feels homey, Emma relaxing almost as soon as she’s inside.

“So, how are you?” Mary Margaret asks once they’ve sat at the table and their sandwiches are served.

“I’m… We’re adjusting, I guess,” Emma answers in between bites. “I gotta leave the house a bit earlier to drop Henry at the bus stop. I miss being on Main Street!”

Her friend chuckles, nodding, then says, “The bus leaves at 8:45, right?”

“Yeah. So we leave at 8:40 at most if we’re not having breakfast at Granny’s.”

“Oh, that makes sense.”

“Then I visit the hospital.”

Mary Margaret tilts her head, putting the sandwich down. “You’re still visiting her?”

Emma frowns. “Yes, of course. I visit every morning and Henry visits in the afternoon. Didn’t I mention to you that it’s good for her brain?”

“You did. 5 times,” she adds.

“Huh.”

“So how’s everything at the mansion?” Mary Margaret’s raised eyebrows show genuine interest, which is a bit odd. “Find any creepy stuff yet?” she asks next, her tone playful.

“No, not really,” Emma says slowly, dabbing her mouth with a napkin, wondering why her friend would want to know about Regina of all people. “We found a bunch of home videos of Henry. Regina basically documented his whole childhood. It’s amazing.”

“Oh? That must have been emotional?”

“Yeah,” Emma says, the corner of her lips turning up despite herself. “I thanked her a lot—”

“Wait, you _talk_ to her?”

“Mary Margaret, you’re not making any sense, of course I talk to her— _that’s_ the helpful brain part!”

“Okay, okay, just asking.”

They eat in silence for a few minutes, and the sandwich is quite tasty, but MM keeps giving her this _look_ and it’s stressing her out.

“Just say it.”

“Have you ever…” MM pauses for a second, and her cheeks get flushed with color, but she continues, “Do you like girls?”

Emma starts choking on the sandwich, and MM has to reach forward and pat her back until she gets it under control. “What the hell?!”

“I’m not judging!” she amends quickly. “Just… curious. Because you’re acting the way _I_ did when I couldn’t stop myself from arriving at Granny’s at 7:15am just to _glance_ at David.”

“What— I— No, that—” Emma splutters, flustered, and realizes she has squashed a good portion of her sandwich.

“Hm. Well, you don’t…”

“I don’t what?”

Mary Margaret practically shoves her face in her glass of water, avoiding Emma’s eyes. “Never mind.”

“Yeah,” she says flatly, and drops the mangled sandwich on her plate. “Now you’ve _got_ to tell me.”

“You told me you don’t get emotional with men,” Mary Margaret says softly.

Emma’s heart starts beating faster. She does _not_ want to have this conversation with her ex-roommate _and_ actual m… _mother._

Mary Margaret is referring to the whole Graham debacle, she works out after a moment of silence with only her friend sipping her water like she hadn’t dropped the biggest bomb on Emma’s lap. 

And well… Emma had liked Graham well enough, but hadn’t really thought about them being a couple. She’d been so confused when Graham kept saying she was jealous of Regina. Mary Margaret had insisted she’d built a wall that protected her from getting close to him. Regina’d said there was _something_ between them, but to this day Emma doesn’t see it.

Everyone’s instance that she had to like Graham had made Emma feel weird.

Their focus had been entirely on the wrong person.

It was only when everyone kept insisting she had feelings for Graham that she realised how much she was always thinking about Regina. When she’d found that Graham was sleeping with Regina she’d felt disgust… at the corruption of it, maybe, but also for another entirely different reason—

“Y-yeah, because of the walls I put up or whatever,” Emma offers weakly out of nowhere.

Mary Margaret sets down her glass, sighing. “It’s more than that, isn’t it?” She now tries to catch Emma’s eyes. “You weren’t jealous of Regina.”

Emma freezes, uncomfortable with how quickly she hit the nail on the head.

“Do you need to break another toaster, Emma?” Mary Margaret asks her, an amused smile on her lips. “To face the realization? Come to terms with it?”

The thing is… she does remember getting upset that Regina was seeing someone. She does recall how frustrated she’d felt not being considered on the same level as Regina. The woman who didn’t think Emma was capable of being Sheriff.

She’d forced herself to forget about it, forget about her… attraction to Regina. It wasn’t _natural._ No one had even considered she might have been jealous of Graham, so why was she even considering it?

And then there had been Regina’s awful framejob, which made her think _See, why was I even attracted to her?_

But now… she’s not so convinced she can dismiss it. Even if she’s terrified that Regina wouldn’t feel the same way—

“Did I tell you that David _called_ me yesterday?” Mary Margaret says, giving her a look that says ‘We don’t have to talk about it for now’, and Emma swallows, putting a break on her swirling thoughts. She’s never been more grateful for her friend. (If only she weren’t going to lose her soon.) “He said he’s coming back. Can’t adapt or something.”

 _From one tough subject to the other._ Emma thinks ruefully. _Which one is weirder to discuss with your mother? Her love life troubles or yours?_

***

**May 5th, 2012**

“Tomorrow it’ll have been two months,” Henry says while Emma’s trying to pick a movie for them to watch, and she pauses, looking over her shoulder at him. “I miss her, Emma.”

Staring at the collection of DVDs, Emma admits, “You know what? I miss her too.”

“I was thinking,” he says next, and Emma turns around to properly look at him. He has his _I did something and you won’t like it_ face on.

Emma narrows her eyes. “What did you do?”

“I visited Mr. Gold— well, Rumplestiltskin again.”

“What— Why? When did this happen?”

“Uhhh.” He smiles sheepishly. “You dropped me off at the bus stop at 8:30 yesterday.”

“I did...?” Emma shakes her head. “Still, you know I wanted you to keep your distance from him. I don’t trust him.”

“I know, I’m sorry! I just— I just thought…” Henry sighs. “I wanted to see if he really didn’t have a… a potion, or a spell? _Something_ we could use!”

Emma sits down next to him on the couch, and places an arm around his shoulders. “Okay, I get that. But _please_ don’t do it again,” she tells him seriously. “I thought you were going to school, not the pawnshop.”

Henry nods, eyes downcast, and seems to understand her point. “I’m sorry, Emma. I won’t do it again.”

“Good. Thanks. But since you did go in there…” She shakes him teasingly. “What did he say?”

“He said I had to find Mom’s True Love in Storybrooke. ‘That’s the only way,’” he imitates Gold’s accent, and Emma has to chuckle.

But then she frowns, removing her arm to look better at him. “But her true love is…”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. I didn’t say anything, because Mr. Gold is a bit scary, Emma. But if he says it’s the only way then he has to be alive. And in Storybrooke. So I started doing some research.”

“What did you find?” Emma asks, trying not to let the spark of hope in her heart settle in too soon.

“The book didn’t help. But that doesn’t matter. I think you should kiss Mom,” he says so matter-of-factly she has to do a double-take.

Emma blinks, and she’s sure her heart stopped for a second. “I’m sorry, _what?”_

“Emma. I even checked the Storybrooke Census Records,” he tells her like it’s _simple_ stuff, checking the town’s _Census,_ a hint of impatience in his tone. “There’s no one in this town that Mom could have true love with. No one. Besides, you’re the only one that talks to her.”

“But that doesn’t mean— Kid, what—” Emma gets up quickly and starts pacing. “How did you even come to that conclusion! This is cr—” she stops herself from saying that word, hands clenching and unclenching into fists. She’s a mess of emotions. Again.

First Mary Margaret, and now _Henry?_

“Besides, Regina doesn’t even like me! How’s that even going to…” Emma trails off, seeing the way Henry’s lowered his head, shoulders slumped.

“You came to town to bring back the happy endings, Emma,” he whispers. “Maybe defeating the Evil Queen means you get to save Mom.”

Emma takes a deep breath and lets it out through her mouth, then throws herself back on the couch. “Fine,” she says between her teeth. “I can try. Tomorrow. In the afternoon. Is that okay?”

Henry grins then tackles her, forcing her backward on the couch, hugs her tight, knocking the wind from her with the ferocity of his hug. “Oof, kid!”

“Thank you, Emma, thank you!” He looks up at her, eyes sparkling with hope, and says, “You can do it!”

Emma swallows hard, apprehension growing in the pit of her stomach. “Keep in mind that it might not work, kid. But I’ll try.”

Henry nods. “Thanks, Ma,” he says.

***

**May 6th, 2012**

Emma is jumpy the next morning and can’t seem to focus on things properly. Emma burns their toast. Henry has to return upstairs because he forgot to put his shoes. Henry almost forgets his backpack on his way out. And Emma her car keys.

It’s clear they’re both out of sorts today.

But somehow they manage to be on time for Henry to catch his bus.

***

 _“Hey.”_ Regina hears, and opens her eyes. She’s not sure for how long she stayed sitting on the floor with her back to the mirror, but she is so very glad for the reprieve from the voice taunting her, telling her she’ll never get out because of the things she’s done. (It’s her own voice.)

“Emma,” Regina whispers the name, and her chest aches — when did Regina start to care so much about hearing Emma? When did it become bittersweet? When did it begin to hurt that she couldn’t respond in a way that would reach Emma? When did Emma start to mean _more_ to her?

_“I don’t know what to say today.”_

“What? What are you talking about?” Regina asks, suddenly terribly afraid that Emma won’t stay with her. “You always—” 

_“I didn’t get enough sleep, and… Wow, this is hard. Um… I almost didn’t come this morning, but I couldn’t bear to leave you alone more than— more than you must be. That’s not the difficult part, though…”_ There’s a pause. _“Forget it. I’m coming back today, in the afternoon, with Henry.”_

“Don’t leave.” Regina says, her voice getting caught in her throat, and her hand clenches against her knee. “Stay. I don’t care if you’re coming back in the afternoon, you idiot. Stay.”

Her hand feels warm, and Regina looks at it, never ready for the flutter in her stomach. Never ready to feel like they’re are connected somehow.

_“I made you a promise a while back.”_

Regina frowns, because Emma is not making any sense. Most days, Regina can understand what she’s saying, but today she’s jumping around too much.

_“I hope I get to keep it.”_

After that, she goes quiet, but Regina’s hand stays in hers for a long while before Emma apologizes for having to go.

***

_“Hi, Mom. It’s Henry. Please wake up, please. I really, really hope you can hear us.”_

“Oh, sweetheart… I wish I could wake up,” she answers, hugging her own midsection.

The next part comes in a whisper, as though Regina’s the only one privy to it, _“I love you. And I think Emma does, too. Please give her a chance?”_

Regina inhales sharply, standing in the middle of the circle of mirrors, her various reflections leaving her dizzy. She’s sure, for a moment, that she’s heard him wrong, that her mind is playing tricks on her. Happiness always bubbles up inside her when he says those words so freely. But Emma?

 _“Regina.”_ The woman in question takes her right hand, and Regina’s heart misses a beat.

Then — Regina can’t stifle her gasp, raising her free hand to her cheek, because it feels _warm._ As if— As if Emma—

 _“For a long time, I pretended I didn’t miss you. Didn’t miss being surprised by your impromptu appearances at the Station. Didn’t miss seeing you every day reading the newspaper at Granny’s. Didn’t miss having the most intense conversations I’ve ever had in my_ life,” Emma says, chuckling. _“But I was lying to myself.”_

 _I miss you too,_ Regina suddenly realizes, eyes watering. Emma, who was meant to be her enemy, but instead kept visiting _every day_ to help with her supposed recovery. Regina’s fingers become wet with her tears, and she brings them to her mouth, very much in awe. She misses Emma almost as much as she misses her son, and that’s…

Her breath catches in her throat, and she remains still in the center of the storm, not wishing to disrupt the surreal feeling of giving herself completely and wholeheartedly to someone and not expecting anything back. Because Emma can’t be—

***

Henry stands a little bit further away, hands together in front of him, bouncing on his feet, while Emma speaks to Regina calmly as though her palms aren’t clammy and her throat dry.

Her fingertips caress Regina’s cheek as she continues, “I did miss it. I missed the Mayor. And then I started to see Henry’s mom, Regina, and I missed her too. I feel like I know you, but we actually… never met.” Her tone shifts to a more positive note. “But I want to meet you. I want to know everything. I want to be here for you and help you with Henry, and figure out what to do about the curse. Together.”

Emma leans forward, and swallows hard, gaze sweeping across Regina’s face. This is it, this is _it._ She hadn’t really considered how she’d do this, but she can’t kiss Regina’s mouth without her consent; furthermore, it’s _weird._ And not just because this might fail spectacularly.

“Go, Emma, you can do it,” Henry says quietly, hands now up at his chest in supplication.

A few centimeters more and she’s lined up with Regina’s forehead. “Please wake up,” she whispers, eyes closing as she lets her lips touch Regina’s cold skin.

Nothing happens. Disappoint rises like a phantom, choking Emma’s chest and throat. Despite the ridiculousness of this whole ‘True Love’ concept she can’t help feeling that it should have worked. Hadn’t consciously realized how much she’d needed it to. 

She _failed._

Emma’s leaning back when there’s a flash of light that has Henry staggering, and Emma feels… something inexplicable coursing through her.

Something _powerful._

Regina’s eyes flutter open and she gasps, taking in a gulp of air. Emma’s heart pounds, and her own breath catches as she hears Regina’s first word.

_“Emma.”_

***

She hasn’t fully processed her awakeness when she tries to lean up to kiss Emma again, but her body is lethargic and fails to cooperate. Letting out a grunt of frustration, Regina finally makes sense of Emma’s words.

“You’re awake,” Emma breathes out, and Regina’s heart beats faster at her glowing smile, unused to such a reaction. Regina’s eyes linger over every detail of Emma’s face: her shining green eyes, her freckles, her very kissable mouth stretched in a grin, her beautiful blonde curls. She treasures it dearly, commits it to memory like she might lose her again. It feels like a lifetime since she last saw her — or any other human being, for that matter. 

Regina nods, staring right back, tears gathering in her eyes. _My true love._

“Mom?” comes a plaintive voice, and she slowly turns her head to see Henry. _My precious little boy—_

“Henry,” she whispers as he comes forward, happiness sparking in his eyes. _“Oh, my love.”_

“Careful, kid—” Emma starts saying when he nearly climbs on the bed to hug her, sobs shaking his small frame.

Regina mouths, ‘It’s okay,’ and envelops him in her arms with every last bit of strength in her body. “I’ve missed you so much, _mi amor.”_

“I m-missed you, Mom,” he manages to say between his tears. “I’m— I’m so happy you’re back.”

“Me too,” Regina says, a sob catching in her throat. “I love you so so much.”

Emma hesitates for a moment, then places her hand on hers. Regina turns her hand and intertwines their fingers, giving Emma a look she hopes conveys her reassurance, her gratitude. Her _love._

And, as Emma leans forward and places another kiss on her forehead, Regina thinks that she’ll fight — come hell or high water — for them. If they will have her by their side.

Henry pulls Emma into their hug, and Regina’s filled with relief and an alien sense of joy.

Maybe they will be alright, whatever comes next.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! You can find me on twitter and tumblr as @ **delicatepoem** ♥

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Taste of the Bitter Apple (Art).](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26179786) by [vortexofevilkz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vortexofevilkz/pseuds/vortexofevilkz)




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